Your Tzitzit is Tangled Up in my Seatbelt
That was a wild ride. I think it may have been the first time I’ve ever interacted with a Chasidic Jew. The poor guy was trapped in a middle seat next to me on a crowded cross-country flight on American Airlines. He was in his early 20s, a self-proclaimed computer geek with an expensive laptop. Said he was a cancer survivor. He was writing a book about it, and wanted my advice on how to overcome writer’s block. (“Go do something else,” I told him, “But set a time to come back to it and adhere to your own deadlines.”) I couldn’t help but notice he was trying to write on the plane, at least an outline of the chapters. But then, taking my advice, he switched gears, and watched “Iron Man,” telling me it was one of his favorite movies. As I watched him grab his overcoats and hat from the overhead bins, I wished him the best. We couldn’t shake hands, but we connected more than I ever felt possible.
