This Passover I Joined the Exodus

On October 3, 1985 I made aliyah to Israel at the age of twenty-three. This year, in 2008, the count will be evened: I will have spent twenty-three years of my life in Israel. After periodically reflecting on this milestone I decided to do something quintessentially Israeli: to leave the country for passover.

Looking ahead last winter at a work calendar overloaded for the long and unusually healthy tourist season, a relaxing vacation for the whole family seemed in order. I booked us into a resort hotel in southwestern Turkey - all inclusive. The idea of leaving took some getting used to; after all, passover in Israel is the ultimate Jewish experience. It begins with a cleaning frenzy that crescendos up to the night of the seder. It then continues with food, food, more food and hoardes of Israelis at every leisure attraction in this small country. It's the retelling of the exodus, it's the personalization of Jewish history, it's the covenant at Mount Sinai, it's the reexamination of the Jewish people's future and it's matzah. Matzah pizza, matzah lasagna, matzah felafel - until it emerges from all one's orifices, one crusty crumb at a time - except from, well, you know...

In the past I always felt obligated to participate in this dubious extravaganza of the Jewish establishment, but this year I liberated myself. We celebrated the seder with a mostly American crowd. We sang corny passover songs set to American classics (eg "Take Me Out to the Ball Game") and read the haggadah in English - just like in the old country. Two days later we were out of here.

How can I sing the praises of Turkey and the Hillside Beach Club sufficiently? After a short plane ride and no time change we landed near the Aegean Sea and drove along a green, mountainous coastline until we reached the resort, nestled in a private, idyllic cove on the beach. Just looking out the window of the hotel room soothes the soul immediately. When we said we were from Israel no one asked us why we were torturing the Palestinians in Gaza; all they wanted to know is if we were coming to play beach volleyball. The clientele is very international; judging just from what people were reading on the beach there were plenty of Turks, Germans, Brits, Dutch and Russians. Even though there were several hundred Israelis there with us we barely felt their presence.

And best of all - there wasn't a matzah in sight. In the enormous dining room, on the buffet overflowing with pasta, seafood, chinese, grilled meats, salads, cheeses and what not there was not a single morsel of unleavened bread. The waiters practiced their three Hebrew phrases on us every day but nobody mentioned the words 'passover,' 'exodus' or 'matzah.' No one asked us if we felt guilty betraying the Jewish people and no one cared what we ate. They just wanted us to have a great time - and we did.

And so, passover of 2008 will be remembered in my family as the most enoyable, relaxing vacation we've had in a while. A true festival of freedom.