Take a number, please...

Friday morning marked the unofficial beginning of my journey to Israel. I paid a visit to the Israeli Consulate, that little slice of Israeli government-owned territory that happens to be just a mere 20 minute walk from my NYC apartment. I went to obtain my student visa, and left with a much greater understanding of what to expect as I get ready to begin my first year of cantorial school in Jerusalem.

First off, I should say that my attire couldn't have been more wrong. I knew I had to get dressed up later for the recital that I was giving at the Y, so I rolled out of bed and headed down to the consulate in sweats and a t-shirt, with my hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. I rationalized that the shower and make-up could come later, when I needed to make my transformation into a diva. Though I was technically dressed modestly, I felt extremely self-conscious and out of place amongst the well-dressed Orthodox women, with their long skirts and perfectly placed wigs. For a split second, it occurred to me that maybe it would have done me some good to dress up -- after all, the Israeli Consulate would be the perfect place to encounter an attractive and eligible Jewish man. After a quick glance at the crowd, however, I noted that the vast majority of men seemed to be of the ultra-Orthodox variety anyway and probably would not be open to the idea of dating a female cantor-to-be. Oh well, chalk one up to experience...

But, mind you, this was all just in the line to enter the elevator. When it was finally my turn, I showed the security guard my passport, answered the requisite security questions (what is your name? where you will be studying in Israel?) and seemed to be all set until the very last question: "Do you have any food or drink with you?" I glanced down at my mug of tea and thought about the water bottle in my bag -- nevermind the fact that I had been nursing a cold all week and needed to stay hydrated in order to sing my recital in a mere couple of hours. "Well, I do, but I've been sick all week and kind of need to drink for medical reasons," I told the guard. Unfazed, he told me I would need to dispose of the beverages before heading upstairs. The security desk wouldn't hold them -- "What are we, a store?" the woman muttered. Then I thought about leaving them in a corner, but noted that doing so would likely warrant an evacuation of the entire building for abandoned and "suspicious" objects. Slightly panicked about the prospect of losing my mug, I walked outside, thrust the contents into a flower pot (herbal tea makes a good fertilizer, no?) and noticed a New York City police officer standing guard in a little booth outside the Consulate. Desperate, I asked him if he would hold my things. "Absolutely," he answered, without hesitation, and I was back in business. On my way back in, I noticed a young girl arguing with the security guard because he told her that she would have to throw out her lunch sack. "But I keep Kosher and it won't be easy for me to find lunch elsewhere," she pleaded. He wouldn't relent, and as she stood in the lobby contemplating a solution, I told her that the police outside would be more than happy to hold onto her bag. She thanked me profusely, dashed outside, and before we knew it we were both riding the elevator up to the 13th floor. That's right, the Israeli Consulate is on the 13th floor. Go figure.

I entered another security line, juggled the same security questions once again, and was then led to a double locked chamber with a metal detector. I stuck my bag on the conveyor belt, after which the guard asked me to remove all of my electronic devices. I took out my cell phone, ipod, and voice recorder, and was somewhat embarrassed as I pulled the rest of the contents out of my bag: a strapless bra and my strappy sandals. I was planning on picking up and trying on my dress for my cousin Beth's wedding on my way home from the consulate, and hadn't anticipated the prospect of an attractive Israeli man digging through my belongings. Oops.

Finally, I was in. I took my number -- 161 -- and looked up at the board. They were on 154. That's not so bad, I thought -- I'd be out of there in no time. WRONG! The first set of numbers was just to disperse people into appropriate lines -- passport renewal, immigration papers, and, of course, visa processing. I was given a new number of 519, and joined the rest of the folks awaiting visas. They included a woman requesting about 20 visas for a youth group trip, an elderly woman and her daughter, several yeshiva boys, and a middle-aged man whose cell phone kept ringing with strains of "If I Were a Rich Man." Oy.

I spent the next two hours alternating between reading "The Lemon Tree," the book about the Arab-Israeli Conflict that my mom has been urging me to read before my departure, and listening to the people around me process their visas. The book was not the best choice for reading in the Israeli Consulate, especially because the very section I was reading during my wait was a description of the 1967 bombing at the SuperSol supermarket just minutes from my future apartment. I then thought about the intense security measures I had to go through just to get into the Consulate, and then reasoned that things like that are so closely guarded these days that it's unlikely that anything bad will happen. Right? Of course right! I cursed the fact that my throat was getting parched by the minute, but was glad that my cough drops somehow managed to elude security....

By the time it was my turn at the counter, I had heard so many others go before me that I thought I had the visa application process down like clockwork. I handed my application and paperwork to a young Israeli woman who sifted through my materials and then shook her head. "You don't have an acceptance letter to a program in Israel, do you?" she asked. I explained that my JTS acceptance letter noted that the first year of my studies would be in Israel, and showed her my MASA scholarship form as proof of the fact that my studies would take place at the Conservative Yeshiva. "I can't accept this," she said. Though I was almost speechless at that point, I mustered the nerve to defend my self. "You mean I just spent two hours waiting here for nothing? I took a day off from work, I have all the appropriate paperwork..." my voice trailed off. "I'm sorry, but this letter is not enough," she repeated. I took at deep breath, looked at my watch, and called up the cantorial office at JTS, hoping someone over there could fax additional proof of my matriculation over to the consulate. I managed to reach Sheryl, who arranged for a letter with details about the Conservative Yeshiva to be faxed to the Consulate, and within 15 minutes I was back in business. (Meanwhile, the man behind me had his visa denied because the acceptance letter to his yeshiva program was via e-mail and lacked a signature -- they really should do something to account for the changing technology!) I only mildly begrudged the fact that the woman would not accept the miniature versions of my headshot I had printed out as passport photos -- "they're scans, not originals," she told me. I quickly shelled out the $5 to have passport photos taken on the spot and by 12pm I was outta there -- with just an hour to spare to get home, shower, and change before heading up to the Y for my recital. Talk about a time crunch!

I retrieved my mug and water bottle from the police station, at which point the cop inside gave me a sympathetic look. "Wow, that took a long time!" I grinned and nodded profusely, and dashed off to catch the bus, only to find Third Avenue bumper-to-bumper with traffic. Ordinarily I would've walked the 20 blocks back up to my apartment, but it was brutally hot and I was racing against the clock. I briefly thought about getting into a cab, but by the time I flagged one down, I was just steps from the 51st street subway station. As luck would have it, the 6 pulled up just as I got to the bottom of the stairs, and I was on my way back to my apartment to get ready for one of my last NYC singing engagements before leaving for Israel.

If my crazy experience at the Israeli Consulate is any indication, I know I'm in for the ride of my life over the course of the next year.