My neighbor my friend sits in front of our house in the back seat of her car holding her seven-day-old newborn baby boy.

“You didn’t answer the phone so I came to tell you about the bris in person” she says in her French Hebrew through the window.

So here drives up exactly what I’m trying to work on this week – getting rid of “not getting there” stains. How can I not go to the bris of a friend who just had a boy after six girls?

If I don’t go I’ll always feel like I didn’t get there. Every time I see this friend I won’t see her I’ll only see me and my stain.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“Tomorrow at 12:00 in the hall next to Rami Levy on Kanfei Nesharim. It’s called Kalifa” she says. At least it sounded like “Kalifa.”

The next morning I leave the house at 11:30 to take the bus to Kanfei Nesharim. I get off at the stop closest to the huge new supermarket Rami Levy.

There’s no hall in sight. I mean there are three halls but none with a name that sounds like “Kalifa.”

I walk up and down the hill through sandy back alleys and industrial centers.

No hall called “Kalifa.”

I try to call the people making the bris. Of course there’s no answer. I try another French neighbor since they generally know the details of family simchos. Again no answer...

Maybe they didn’t say “Kalifa.” I start to wonder if I didn’t hear it right. I stop into a few halls.

“Do you know a hall called Kalifa next to Rami Levy?” I ask about five to ten people.

Everyone tries hard to figure out where a hall called “Kalifa” could possibly be next to Rami Levy

I’m ready to give up feeling that same kind of lostness of when we first came to Eretz Yisroel. The pull of wanting to go back to familiarity and comfort. Then I think of my friend my neighbor how she drove over to my house with the baby and the six girls.

Don’t give up I tell myself. Don’t turn back. Later you’ll only have to explain how you couldn’t find it. You don’t want to walk around with those “excuse stains” till the end of days.

I try calling my friend’s cell phone again. Her husband picks up. “Bonjour?” 

“Where are you?” I ask exasperated.

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ve been walking around looking for you almost an hour!”

Still no answer. “Hello?” I say.

Finally he asks “Who is this?”

Then I realize it’s not the father of the new baby; it’s my other neighbor’s husband. Totally embarrassed I explain and apologize that I’ve been looking for the bris and that I’ve been walking around next to Rami Levy on Kanfei Nesharim for about an hour.

“Aaaahh” he says. “Oui it’s not there. It’s next to the old Rami Levy — one street below.”

“Aaaahh” I say without the oui “right. Thank you.”

I walk back towards the hall with the noonday Middle Eastern sun beating down shoes all dusty. My eyes need to adjust to the hall’s lighting. At first it looks like I’ve landed in Morocco.

The Rav’s sitting in a big bris milah chair giving blessings to all the guests. The father of the baby giving blessings to his relatives and friends with his hands on their heads.

So much honor for the celebration of bringing a new soul into the Jewish people. It’s so beautiful I imagine what Avraham and Sarah’s simchah must have been like.

I call my husband to share the long journey.

My husband hears and says “Well at least you got there.”

And this really does sum it up: at least we got here.