Apt for a woman who has moved to Jerusalem, the eternal city. Twenty-four hours in, I've had a relatively soft landing. In a world full of refugees and mass migrations, you could call it cushy.
My move was planned, carefully plotted, with step-by-step assistance from Nefesh B'Nefesh. And I was coming home to the land of my ancestors.
Day One passed in a blur, flying with my mound of luggage from Minneapolis to Toronto, where I had a sweetly emotional lunch with my son. Then 10 hours via El Al to Jerusalem. Processing for me and three other olim at the airport relatively painless - that's what a year of paperwork preparation will do.
Going to bed in the chilly flat heated only by a space heater seemed to me a bad omen, yet I awoke sufficiently refreshed to start the day; coffeeless, though, as there is no coffeemaker and I don't understand how to start the portable burner. Nonetheless, I went about town, ordering coffee-to-go in Hebrew, loading my Rav Kav card for the month, picking up an Israeli sim card for my phone, adapters for my computers, a cake for my neighbor, and bananas for my cupboard.
I popped in the laundry, fed myself, set up voicemail and recorded my welcome message including the number in Hebrew. Big deal? Yes, for me.
Now I sit in the sunshine with the view of Jerusalem - and look -- my laundry, too. I am home.
Post-script: Discovered I had left my IPad somewhere in my wanderings. Retraced my steps through the shuk, where the bakeryman told me to kiss it goodbye. Found it waiting for me in the hardware store. Miraculous.
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