I arrived in the United States early this morning, passing a team of Israeli shlichim from the same flight as me. Carrying my heavy luggage with me, I boarded a bus down the East Coast toward Washington, DC. I fell asleep instantly, and I woke up in the middle of the bus ride.
The bus was whizzing by green grass, tall trees siding the highway, and glimpses of furrowed fields beyond the hedge.
We stopped at the Walt Whitman Rest Area, in Cherry Hill. At this point we had been driving for more than an hour, past a pastoral painting of rural land. I recalled the long drive that took me, just yesterday, out of Israel – the taxi from Jerusalem up the highway to the airport, passing bush, shrub, bits of desert, bits of farmland.