sashinka | observation orientated, with a twist of lime | a blog

So I'm in Manchester (Cheadle, obviously), spent the weekend at my cousin's (well, technically, first cousin once removed, call me a genealogist if you will) barmitzvah. And yes, I shouldn't start sentences with so, but hey, I'm a blogger. No editor, that's the thing. Well, part of the thing.

I'll say more later, when I have a chance, because I've had a wonderful, warm, family-oriented, emotionally charged weekend.

But while I remember, I just want to write this.

I think I've said before, that I have a thing about frummers and trains. Like, when I see frummers (people in black hats/peyot/dressed like eighteenth century Polish noblemen) I want to sit with them and talk Yiddish. Mostly, they don't think I look Jewish (frum) because (a) I don't dress badly/modestly enough and (b) I have fair(ish) hair. But anyway. Like, I like to surprise them... just get chatting, and then it turns out I speak idiomatic Northern Yiddish, or enough to scare them that I know where they're coming from. Broughton Park, mostly.

So there was this bloke in my carriage, older, frum, black hat, beard, the full kit and caboodle. I didn't sit with him because he was sitting in a two seat, and I wanted to sit with a table, and also, sometimes those guys don't like sitting next to women for modestly reasons, and I wouldn't want to embarrass them.

A terribly well preserved woman-of-a-certain age sat next to him; I'm guessing they were both late fifties/early sixties. And when she sat down, I thought, huh, you're not in for much conversation. But when she said hello, he said hello back, and I earwigged their conversation all the way to London: he was going to his daughter in Hendon for shabbes, and by the time the two hours and ten minutes was up, he'd taught her some Yiddish, and they'd swapped grandchildren photos and stories, and he'd quite openly explained lots of Jewish stuff to her in a slightly kiruv way, but hey.

It was cool. It made me feel good that there are open-minded frummers. And everytime he called his daughter Rivkey (which was a lot of times because as we all know, you can never be too careful) he was sure to tell her that (a) there had been no disasters and (b) he had lovely company.

Just interesting, is what I'm saying.

In other news, I sat with someone tonight, at the barmitzvah, who reads my blog, but he didn't want to say too much in case I wrote about him. So I'm just saying, hi, D. I'm not saying anything, just hi.