Life is a Trip (13 page)

Loud Hebrew music blasted from loud speakers. On huge screens, there was a video of the much-admired Lubavitcher Rabbi, and people handed out fliers and prayer cards which bore the name of Nachman of Bratslav, another famed rabbi and mystic. People hawked wares and generally hung out. Was this Meron or a county fair?

As the sun disappeared in the west, a great bonfire was prepared near the tomb of Shimon bar Yochai.

“When Rabbi Shimon revealed the Torah on his deathbed, there was a blazing light around him, and everyone saw it,” explained a woman standing next to me. “To this day, he is associated with light, and fires are lit in his honor.”

It was very difficult to see what was going on because of the thousands of pe
o
ple gathered near the sepulcher. Paul held his camera over his head, clicking away. A rabbi poured olive oil and the bonfire blazed—marking the formal beginning of the festivities. Immediately, there was an eruption of ecstasy. Men in black began to dance and sing. Everyone clapped and stomped and hooted with glee. Men wrapped their prayer shawls and fringed undergarments around each other. They danced, they bonded, they were transported with merr
i
ment. Women danced in a circle. Everyone shared food, drinks, bles
s
ings.

By tradition, men bring their young sons to get their first haircuts on this night, so the actual tomb was mobbed. I was curious about what the faithful did inside the sepulcher, but women were not allowed entry. Paul decided to squeeze his way in so that he could get some photos. It took him about five minutes to work his way through the crowd, and I expected him to return in a minute or two, which is ge
n
erally the limit of his tolerance for religious exposure.

Half an hour passed, and suddenly I saw Paul. His face was flushed. “What happened?” I asked, afraid he’d had a negative exper
i
ence.

“I got pulled into the dancing,” he answered. “I was going to drop out, but I figured maybe I should just go with the experience. I had no idea what I was doing. I just followed what the others did. I put my hands around the shoulders of the men next to me, and I kicked up my heels. There were dozens and dozens of men in the dance.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy?”

“Yes. Was it fun?”

Paul grew very quiet. “It took me by surprise,” he said. “It wasn’t really about fun. I found it oddly bonding and moving. It was mea
n
ingful.”

I looked around me. This was not the cerebral, institutionalized Judaism I had found so empty. It was an outpouring of joyful, crazy, irrational ecstasy. Whether I agreed with their brand of Orthodox Jud
a
ism or not, it was undeniable that these men in black and their families were moved and transported and had faith.

Faith. Yes. That was the key to it all. It was faith that made women looking for their soul mates leave behind scarves and underpants at the tomb of Rabbi Uziel. It was faith that I felt when I entered the sepulchral building that housed Shimon bar Yochai. Faith that I could be healed. Over the years, millions of people had entered that same room, praying for favors and for healing; they had left behind a palpable energy that had emanated from their prayers and tears. It was faith that brought the Yemenite women to the tomb of Baba Sali, faith that he and everyone associated with him would help them to find well-being. And it was faith in the streets of Meron on Lag B’Omer. The belief that young co
u
ples could become fertile, that the spirit of Rabbi Shimon was hovering around, that humans could be blessed with prosperity and community and wholeness. That through the year-round study of torah and my
s
ticism, they could find union with humankind and with God.

When I came home, I started to notice people all around me who yearned to be moved in their souls. Some of them were transported by music. Others by nature or art, cooking or ministering to their elders.

I felt a longing to be connected to the dead, to transcend the boundaries of time and space. I bought a Yahrzeit candle, which is the commemorative candle-in-a-glass that Jewish people light every year on the anniversary of the death of their near and dear ones. After dinner, when the phones weren’t ringing and my co
m
puter was in sleep mode, I lit the candle and began to talk to my father, Eddie, who died when I was young. His passing left a deep, unfillable hole. Not only had he been deprived of a full life, but I had spent all of my adult existence without a f
a
ther.

First I told him what was going on in my life. I spoke about my work, my ma
r
riage to Paul, how my mother was doing. I said I had been to Israel where I visited the tombs of the rabbis. I talked freely about this and that, and then I began to ask him questions. “Are you okay?” “Are you at peace?” “Are you watching over us?” “Do you think I am doing the right thing with my life?”

All of the questions could be answered by “yes” or “no.” And I swear to you that when the answer was “yes,” the flame of the candle grew bigger. And when the reply was “no,” the flame flitted horizo
n
tally from side to side.

Was I imagining it? I don’t think so. Is it really that easy for the living to a
c
cess the deceased? If both parties are willing, I believe the answer is “yes.”

Maybe I just have faith or a yearning in my soul to connect to something larger than me. If you have faith, you may want to try it.

I
stanbul, Turkey,
probably has as many great hotels as it has kabob ske
w
ers, but a small, clean, simple hotel called the Zeynap Sultan is one of the top-rated places to stay in the city.

It’s in the historic Sultanahmet area of Istanbul, where it shares space with the nearby Blue Mosque (an early seventeenth-century marvel adorned with blue tiles); the domes and minarets of the sixth-century architectural masterpiece Aya Sophia; the Byzantine hippodrome where chariot races once took place; the archeology m
u
seum; Topkapi Palace; restaurants and shops which offer everything from silk carpets to caftans worn by a harem beauty, to silver-threaded towels and shawls from an Ottoman bride’s trousseau, to baseball caps and T-shirts.

Breakfast is served on the roof of the hotel, and guests absent-mindedly eat yoghurt, olives, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs as they look out over some of the most beloved tourist sites in the world. And this is where most guests meet Abe Akyunus, the owner of the hotel. “It was once my family home,” he tells them.

Something must be wrong with Abe. Although he once owned and ran a pha
r
macy and developed cutting-edge products for the cosmetic and beauty industry, he never learned that business is about money. He’s so clueless about the bottom line that he drops everything and shuttles guests around, makes calls for them, and folds himself in half and in half again, like the hotel’s sheets, to make his clients happy.

If you spend any time talking to Abe, he’ll probably invite you i
n
to the bowels of the hotel, which used to be the basement of his chil
d
hood home. He’ll hand you a flashlight and lead you down rickety steps to what may be among the oldest e
x
amples of Byzantine
arch
i
tecture in the city. You’ll see remnants of frescos and pillars that were possibly part of an early church—maybe even older than Aya S
o
fia.

Abe was born Muslim, but he is horrified by organized religion. Probably the only thing he won’t do for you is pull out a Koran, a
c
company you to a religious service, or engage in serious conversation about Sufis, whirling dervishes, myst
i
cism, prayer, prophets, or ph
y
lacteries. He is an equal opportunity secularist; no organized religion is more or less attractive or interesting to him.

Some guests only know Abe as the friendly hotel guy who waves and asks how their day was and what they did. They notice that he really listens and, if they express any need, he tries to fulfill it. Others have tea with Abe and he regales them with funny, sad, and crazy stories of growing up in the fabled city. A few exper
i
ence “essential Abe” if they get sick and he checks in on them or if they say they have heard about the fabulous dried fruits at the Egyptian spice market and sudde
n
ly they’re being proffered apricots or figs.

“Hey, Abe, you’re a middle-aged guy. You’re working insane hours. You have more than enough money. Don’t you ever get tired of ministering to your clients?” I ask.

He looks at me as though I need a lobotomy. “They are guests in my house,” he says. “Do you expect me to ignore them?”

I have become very close to Abe and his wife, Gulhis, over the years. I was a guest at his hotel, stayed in their house, and once Abe drove seventeen hours to take me from Bodrum (which was Halica
r
nassus in ancient times and produced homeboy historian Herodotus) to Istanbul. We speak on the phone regularly, e
x
change emails, and have spent long hours together. I have never seen Abe be an
y
thing other than generous and hospitable. Even after the seventeen-hour drive, when his eyes looked like glazed donuts, he wanted to be sure I had a good dinner and was comfortable for the night.

Abe’s hotel is all about Abe. And when Abe’s not there, his staff has been trained to treat guests the way he does: with care, concern, and boundless hospitality. No wonder the place beats out so many other h
o
tels that offer startling architecture, sumptuous rooms, and five-star amenities.

Abe enjoys creature comforts, luxury, ease, and the finer things in life. But the very finest thing to him is human relationships and helping others. He does not b
e
lieve we were born to shop, consume, and then die. He feels good when he makes others feel comfortable and respected. He gets high when he helps his friends. D
e
spite his secula
r
ism, Abe has penetrated the core of what religions are about: doing to others as you would have them do to you and practicing care, concern, and what my Buddhist friends call lovingkindness.

In a world of bottom lines and spreadsheets, this one man reminds us that a business can do well by doing good things for people. In a sense, you
can
take good will to the bank because people are drawn to establishments where they feel nurtured and cared for. They will fr
e
quent them again and again and tell all their friends. It all boils down to one word: service. In dreamy Istanbul, this is the secret of Abe’s success.