Tsfat

Bus 982 was a half-hour late, and, when it finally arrived, too full for us to board. This Shabbat wouldn't be lacking in adventure! Jay and I traveled for a few hours on a second bus that was sent as back-up, when a crazy person next to us began to recite blessings at a shout, which didn't do much to dim the already raucous noise of a one-against-five argument that the Lubavitch rebbe, who died twelve years ago, is still alive and well, and is, in fact, the Messiah.

The bus rolled through mountains to a small city perched amidst them, 3 or 4 hours' drive north of Jerusalem at around 1 in the morning. At the hostel we stayed in the first night there, we had a roommate who was friendly and talkative when we first entered the room, but he began snoring like a locomotive at around 3 am, right on time for me to wander to the patio and overhear Breslovers (a sect of hasidism) crying out to God in the Wadi (a dried-up river bed where the great mystic Reb Nachman of Breslov spent much time).

The next day, the Chabad meditation retreat began with a small breakfast and a bus that we boarded, ever so ambivalently, and that would take us to a nearby area where we would learn meditation and the Jewish contemplative practice of hitbodedut (talking to God). Between Jay, myself, and our friends, two of us were there for the first time, and almost all of us had come to Svat without any intention of using that as a launching pad to another destination. After much debate between the four of us, to the confusion and clear disappointment of one of the teachers (and a bit to our own short-lived embarrassment) we decided to get off the bus and walk back to Tsfat.

The Wadi
Jay guided us on a hike that we voted to take, on our way. We descended into the Wadi, stopped part-way through our hike to meditate underneath trees and atop boulders that called to us, and continued to the end of the trail where we were greeted by crisp stream filled, to my surprise, with autumn leaves.

Autumn leaves in the spring at the end of the Wadi
As we neared Tsfat (travelling uphill all the way, and then up dozens upon dozens of grueling stairs) we climbed through the graveyard where Reb Nachman (a.k.a., the Ari) is buried along with Joseph Caro and Cordovero (one of the authors of the Zohar). Jay later told me, a few years ago, one of our friends woke up in the middle of the night and saw, without much surprise (as it must happen frequently) the many candles usually lit on the Ari's grave had created a pool of wax and wicks causing flames to roar high and bright atop his tomb.

The domed tomb of a tzaddik along the edge of the Wadi
We continued our ascent and were about to meander past a locked synagogue, when a man who was passing by stopped and offered to open the synagogue and give us a tour. This synagogue happened to be the oldest in Svat, and besides its humble splendor, housed a chamber where Nachman of Breslov would sit throughout the week.

Jay and I accompanied our friends, Tamuz and Elizabeth, to Elizabeth's favorite cafe where we happened to sit right next to Gilbert and his partner (both of whom we had Shabbat dinner with a little over a week ago)! I had the most delicious limonana (lemon-mint drink) in this weavery (which doubled as a cafe), and enjoyed a magnificent view of the valley from which we had ascended.

A view of the mountains from Svat
After Jay and I wrestled with a makeshift ladder to climb the roof, because one of the keys we were given to enter the art gallery we were staying in the second night didn't work, a Kabbalistic artist in the apartment nearby wrenched open the door for us. The gallery had a small loft upstairs where we slept, and on the patio (up yet more steep stone stairs) sun-charged cherry tomatoes that burst red and warm in our mouths.

Jay had arranged a dinner with one of the members of a band called Simply Sfat, but didn't know where their apartment was, so we attended a Breslov shul for Kabbalat Shabbat (after going to the mikvah ritual well that the Ari used) in hopes of finding him there amidst the homogeneous crowd of 500 black-hatted Hasids. We asked someone about him at the end of Shabbat davenning and he said, "follow me" as he clasped our hands and pulled us into a line of 500 people, dancing to a song in a complicated weave through the aisles (for yet a third time in their Kabbalat Shabbat prayers), and finally found our host.

On Shabbat (Saturday), we lunched at the house of David Friedman (another talented artist/student of Kabbalah), headed back to our gallery, and after resting made our way to the one part of the Chabad program we ended up attending, which addressed various Jewish contemplative practices (with particular respect to approaching Jewish texts). We escaped from the "Seudah Shlishit (Third Meal) with Meditative Insights" in order to make our nine o'clock bus, and had a nice ride back with our traveling companions, Tamuz and Elizabeth. I'm excited to see what Tsfat has to offer me next time, when I return with my family!