Ihate flying.

I’m standing in the airport, my shoulders still feeling the weight of my gigantic carry-on, which is currently being randomly searched by a security guy paying an inordinate amount of attention to my shoes, each protected by a Yankel’s Heimishe Bake Shoppe grocery bag in case the bottle of frozen facial toner hidden in my sweatshirt — please, Hashem, let him not notice that — leaks.

My stockinged feet are trying to avoid touching the germ-ridden floor, which, obviously, is impossible unless you stand on your head, so right now I’m hopping from foot to foot, and checking my watch since I’m running so late that I might actually miss my flight.

“All clear,” he announces. I breathe a sigh of relief, replacing my Toms as the security guard shoves my shoes, PJs, bathrobe, curling iron, electric toothbrush, We Know You Hate Him But Marry Him Anyway: Effective Tachlis Dating handbook, freckle concealer, echinacea supplements, and emergency stash of — why am I listing all this out? It’s seriously none of your business.

It doesn’t fit.

“Hold on, I’ll do it,” I say. “It took me hours. You need to put it in at just the right angle, see—”

He nods, pushing it all toward me and waving over the next passenger. I start repacking, nervously noting the time. Okay, it’s really late. This isn’t a joke.

I stuff my terry bathrobe in last and struggle to zip the duffel. It doesn’t close.

“Final boarding call for flight 4505 to Newark,” I hear over the loudspeakers.

Okay, this really isn’t a joke.

I look at my bathrobe again.

“You did what?!”

Toby, sprawled on the couch holding a popcorn bowl in her lap, howled with laughter. Memories of pointed looks travelers had thrown my way resurfaced, and my face heated up. “My flight was boarding already—”

“So you wore your bathrobe, Esti?! In the Zurich Airport?!” Avigail convulsed with giggles. “Why’d you pack so many shoes to start with? You planned to hike the Jungfrau in heels?”

I shrugged. “Who knows who you might have to meet, right?”

“A podiatrist.” That was from Dafna, who’d joined us for the Shabbos meal; we’d eaten together with Toby’s family. “Any plans this year? My parents are talking the Canadian Rockies, and I’m joining.”

I suppressed a tinge of jealousy. “Nothing. Yet.”

Toby stretched, tossing aside the Jewish Zone, a local paper. “You saw this tour to the South Pole and Antarctica? Eight thousand bucks plus airfare. Wow. I go nowhere major. Blech.” She headed to the kitchen to refill the empty popcorn bowl.

“She went to Italy last year.” Avigail frowned. “That was pretty major. I go nowhere, period. And Esti did the Alps.”

Dafna stretched lazily on the couch. “Don’t feel bad. I was there years ago, it’s gorgeous, sure, but check out the mountains online if you feel you missed out, and Italy, it’s just history, you can read it online, too—”

Avigail rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll pretend I went. Visit the tourist attractions on Google Earth—”

“That’s ridiculous!” I cut in.

“Wikipedia for the history, Google Images for pictures—”

“Oh, it was amaaaaaazing!” Dafna gushed in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. Was she imitating me?

“What was amazing?” Toby asked, reappearing.

“My imaginary vacation to Switzerland.”

Toby’s eyebrows shot up.

“You’re thinking too small,” she said, after Avigail filled her in. “Forget your own vacation. We should create an entire tour. An imaginary tour.”

Two weeks later I saw her advertisement in the Zone. I phoned Toby immediately.

“Are you crazy?” I demanded. “No one’s signing up! Oh, I’m sure they’ll call, everyone’s looking for discounts. But when they hear you’re planning an imaginary vacation, I mean, seriously, like they’re gonna keep their lights off the entire week to fool neighbors into thinking they’re really away. Did you really think this through?”

“Maybe they’ll call, maybe they won’t,” Toby said agreeably. “Keep me posted. It’s your cell number on the ad.”

Leah Silver phoned first, just to inquire.

“One week, four kids,” she relayed to Toby. We’d been together when the call came through and I’d handed my cell over; I wasn’t dealing with Toby’s meshigas. “I need something different, unique. My neighbor, she’s yakking about petting monkeys in Costa Rica and animal migrations in Rwanda and Northern lights in Iceland. You need to understand, I can’t come back with pictures of my kids riding the Staten Island Ferry…”

“We’re going to the Arctic Isles, off the Scandinavian coast,” Toby said confidently. “You’re gonna love it. Beaches, volcanic mountains, hikes over ice glaciers, gourmet meals, fascinating history—”

“And it’s discounted? Ooooh, let me speak with my husband,” she said.

“Sure, but our slots are filling fast!”

Leah called again later for more details. Then Toby slowly, cautiously, disclosed our budgeting option.

“Oh, so you mean you’re not actually— whoa. That,” she breathed, “is brilliant.”

She signed up.

Idy Teller called next, asking about pricing, itinerary, and whether other single girls were joining. A Lakewood couple wanted to confirm the Isles weren’t in Vermont, a Rebbetzin Goldberg from Portland called to offer her services as our guest speaker for a discounted price, and a Rochie Rubin phoned to ask if high schoolers were allowed to join.

“And you said yes?!” I yelped. “A high school kid? Ice-hiking on glaciers in Scandinavia and fressing gourmet meals? What happened to zip-lining in the Catskills? What happened to free orange soda refills in the Woodbourne pizza shop?”

“Today’s teen needs something classier,” Toby said breezily. “Besides, we’re not really going, right? Sky’s the limit.”

“That’s not the point.” I called Rochie back, informing her that unfortunately, we had no slots open, while Toby tried wrestling the phone away from me.

The phone calls kept pouring in.

We agreed not to expand to too many strangers; you couldn’t trust people not to blab, and if word spread that the Arctic Isles tour was a virtual one, as Toby insisted we call it, our participants would be in trouble. We accepted the first few strangers and then worked on internal recruits. Dafna’s married friend always complained about vacation expenses and keeping up with the Schwartzes; Toby and I had friends salivating for the Arctics tour but scared to put down the deposit in case they get engaged before the departure date. Soon we had a tentative group of 20, a mix of families looking for a vacation on a budget, single girls, and young marrieds looking for a cheap shanah rishonah vacation experience.

“Sorry, we’re booked,” I said apologetically to the 25th person who called, early July.

A computer wizard, Avigail set up an online discussion forum called Scoop, where our tour members could log in, chat each other, listen to our explanations, and view the scenery and food images we’d post on what was called the ScoopBoard. Toby took over the actual itinerary — I hadn’t even heard of the Arctic Isles, but she said she knew someone who’d been there — and over the next few weeks, I navigated Shutterfly and Snapfish to explore the cheapest photobook options for our participants to show off later.

Leah, our first enrolled tour member, called Thursday night.

“Listen, which hotel are we staying in?”

“Um, hotel? You understand that we won’t actually, well —”

“Oh, I know that, but I need pictures at least, also can you send those miniature shampoos or white fuzzy slippers, I always sneak a few.”

“Uh, sure….”

Hotels. Right.

I hung up and logged onto Hotels.com, searching for hotels near the Arctic Isles for the dates I inputted. No hotels available. I switched to the week before — we didn’t really need reservations, just pictures so everyone could salivate over the marble showers and 300-thread count sheets. Nothing available then, either.

Maybe I’d arrange Shabbos accommodations first.

The Chabad website was down, so I called the general hotline and asked the receptionist if there was a Chabad there.

“The Arctic Isles?”

“Near Finland.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I don’t think so, it doesn’t sound familiar, but hold on, I’ll check. How do you spell it?”

“A-r-c-t-i-c Isles.” I waited.

“Nothing there, sorry.”

“I-s-l-e-s, no ‘a’ in the front—”

“Nope.”

Toby was clicking in, so I thanked her hurriedly and picked up Toby’s call. “I couldn’t find hotels for any August dates.”

There was a long pause. “I’ll deal with that.”

“Great, and Chabad—”

“I’ll deal with that too. Listen, find some kosher food places near Finland, it’s the country closest to the Isles, and can you deal with the food situation overall? Just create a menu, we’re not really serving it, but make up gourmet stuff for breakfast and dinner, with pictures, people eat with their eyes mostly. Lunch can be packed sandwiches, we’ll figure that out later, go online to Tiberias and Reserve Cut for dinner options, maybe a cafי for breakfast— “

“I’m on it,” I said confidently.

I navigated my way to the Tiberias website, scrolling through their options. Okay, goat cheese spinach ravioli — I copy/pasted the description onto a Word document — ricotta rosemary toast salad, grilled salmon. I looked through their dessert options. Yuuuuum. Dulce de Leche caramel cheesecake? I never order this kind of stuff… I hesitated, mouse hovering over the image, then moved my hand obediently toward the fruit assortment.

On second thought, I clicked the cheesecake, throwing in the tiramisu for good measure. Maybe we actually should order this, for real, and deliver it to our members, like a super-sophisticated version of Meals on Wheels.

Reserve Cut was my next stop, as my fingers clicked furiously on the keyboard. I’d never been there — out of my budget — but I’d heard their Colorado Rack of Lamb was out of this world.

Gosh, this was fun.

Toby sent me a link for the Arctic Circle hotel, complete with pictures and Trip Advisor reviews.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Great location, fabulous service, great scenic view of mountains, read the first review.

“Uh, great location, fabulous service, I guess.” I kept scrolling down. Super clean, phenomenal continental breakfast, no one yells if sneak extra food, no bugs, HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!!!!

“Wait, this hotel is in Finland?”

“It’s right off the coast, there’s a 20-minute ferry ride directly to the Isles.”

“Oh. It’s okay for Shabbos? Well. As if it matters anyway, right? I’m assuming we’ll arrange make-believe separate swimming hours, too?”

“Right. Virtual hours. I’m sending another site — hold on.”

An email popped up with a link to AliExpress, and I clicked it open, scrolling down pages and pages of pendants, trinkets, and loose stones.

“Souvenirs,” Toby explained. “All less than five bucks apiece. I found Nordic-style jewelry and also home decorations, like umbrella stands and key holders. You like?”

“Hmm. Souvenirs, huh. Are we taking it a bit too far? I mean, that’s kind of misleading, isn’t it?”

“I’m a tour guide, not a rav.”

I blinked. “Okaaaaay...” Toby didn’t respond. “Okay, whatever, yeah. Though it’ll take forever to get them delivered.”

“I’ll send the link out earlier so they can order earlier.” Toby paused. “On second thought — no, that’ll take the fun out of it. We’ll include souvenir shopping on the itinerary and everyone can do expedited shipping.”

She clicked off.

Itinerary:

Monday: Departure from Newark Airport! Destination: Arctic Isles

Tuesday: Arrival at the Isles, ferry ride to Arctic Circle Hotel; inspiring words by the Rebbetzin, guided virtual tour of hotel including virtual swimming and gym, followed by historical tour of southern Isles, visit to local museum.

Wednesday: Continental Breakfast [photos provided]; ferry ride to Northern Finland, souvenir shopping

Thursday: Water sports on the Arctic Lake! Featuring jet-skiing, kayaking, and water sledding

Friday: Death-defying hike up Glacier Mountain!

Shabbos in the Arctic Isles!

Motzaei Shabbos: Gala farewell Melaveh Malkah on top of Glacier Mountain ***Note: Menu is fleishigs!!!!!!***

Sunday: Return home!

Cost: Discounted early-bird price: $250 per person, limited slots available.

“It’s a bargain, really,” Toby said.

Hey, r we there yet LOL

Avigail set up Scoop so our tour members could chat each other, and when I logged in Tuesday morning at Toby’s house — her basement was prepared with her computer and tour paperwork — a conversation was already furiously in session.

hey I need a bathroom stop

lol!

“Whoa, this is nuts.” I looked through the pop-ups visible on our Scoop-Organizers central computer, where we were able to see the participants. Avigail set it so that they couldn’t see us, just hear our voices when the record function was activated, and the participants couldn’t see each other, either. Discretion was a necessity on a virtual vacation. “There are 20 people here! On a make-believe tour!”

“Virtual tour,” Toby corrected, grinning from ear to ear. “Looks like we’ve got a full crowd! I’ll start introductions and then we’ll hear words of inspiration from the rebbetzin.”

“Who’s the rebbetzin?”

Toby winked and tossed me a small book. “You are.”

“Welcome to the Arctic Isles Tour!” Toby bellowed. Beside her, I skimmed her copy of Yiddishkeit for Dummies: 10 super-fast ways to become a better Jew. “We hope you enjoyed your breakfast.” She’d posted pictures of waffles, pancakes, toasted bagels, cheese, and fresh fruit on the ScoopBoard. “I’m Toby, and I’ll be your tour guide! And now, our Rebbetzin Esti will say a few words.”

When I was done, Toby navigated the tour group through pictures of the Arctic Circle hotel rooms, swimming area, and gym, then posted images of the meal I’d chosen from Choco Cafי, a new hot spot in the city. I left to eat a real lunch — a tuna sandwich — and when I returned, Avigail was busily exploring the southernmost part of the Isles.

“We’re driving down Volcanic Hill,” Avigail announced, “which is the longest street in Scandinavia, known for its historic, uh, aqueduct system, which was built in the year 960 BCE by Roman slaves.” She was warming up, reading from the file Toby had prepared.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a pop-up.

Leah exited chat.

“In addition,” Avigail continued, “Arctic Isles was famous for its advanced washroom architecture, nicknamed ‘the Arctic Outhouse’ by the Pilgrims, some of whom escaped from England after the Edict of Milan. And now, we shall explore the world-famous scenery that draws tourists worldwide to the great Isles!”

Rochela exited chat.

“Look to your right, folks, and you can see trees,” Avigail intoned. “Look to your left, and you can see more trees. Slightly taller ones. These were planted in 1754 as a tribute to Peter the Great, from seedlings imported from Spanish colonies —”

Gitty exited chat.

“And now —” she clicked on another file — “and now, we’ll enter the Museum of Socks.”

Zahava exited chat.

Liba exited chat.

Raizy exited chat.

“Hey, where’d everyone go?” Avigail looked up from her paper, surprised. “I was just getting to the best part.”

Toby shook with laughter.

We logged on at nine o’clock each morning, I recited from Yiddishkeit for Dummies, and our group straggled in around five minutes later, for breakfast. I went wild with photos of waffles with real syrup, scrambled eggs, toast, smoked whitefish on crackers, cinnamon buns, croissants, and coffee, varying the options each morning so our group wouldn’t get bored.

Toby prepared the sightseeing, and had folders for each day, subdivided into files for all the major sites, including pictures, their history, and interesting anecdotes on each. We kayaked down the Arctic lake, virtually, skied down a small glacier, virtually, and visited a few local museums, virtually; those were usually the times that the women on the tour exited the chat to do their laundry or cook real supper. Our virtual supper, obviously, was a gourmet spread clicked from the top kosher restaurants in the city.

By the time Friday morning came around, I was exhausted and almost certain I’d actually gained five pounds.

“Listen, I’m thinking of virtually taking the tour to this kosher restaurant in Finland on Motzaei Shabbos,” Toby told me, when I arrived in her basement. “Check this out. They’re famous for their fish, they grill it whole and serve it like that, it’s intensely flavorful, the guy told me over the phone. They do it that way in the really fancy places. What do you think?” She clicked on an image.

“Looks good.” I barely glanced at it. “Where’s Avigail? It’s almost nine.”

Toby minimized the image. “I just texted her. You can get started on the rebbetzin stuff.”

I complied, but by the time I was done, Avigail still hadn’t shown up. By then, most of our tour had popped up in Scoop.

“Avigail’s not feeling well,” Toby told me, when I clicked off. “She just texted. Can you take over the hike? We’re climbing the Arctic Glaciers mountain range, virtually, we just need someone to yak about the rocks or flower species or whatever. And you’re our hiking guru, right?”

“Huh?”

“The Jungfrau in Switzerland and all that.”

“Oh… sure, I guess,” I said hesitantly. “You have the info there, though, right? I never heard of the Arctic Glacier mountains.”

“All here,” Toby said confidently. I clicked the file name as she reached for the record button.

A babble of excited voices filled her basement, and I stifled a giggle as a huge headshot of Idy Teller appeared; she was clothed in hiking gear and had a bottle of Powerade and a huge bag of trail mix beside her. Leah Klein popped up next, brandishing a trekking pole, an enormous backpack duffel strapped behind her.

“Good morning, folks!” Toby boomed. The file didn’t open, so I clicked it again. “We hope you carbo-loaded your virtual gourmet waffles breakfast, with fresh strawberry syrup and homemade granola! Are you ready for the Super Strenuous, Man-Eating, Death-Defying hike up the tallest mountain range in Europe, with our expert Ranger Esti?”

The group cheered.

The file still didn’t open. My palms started to sweat.

“Toby,” I whispered, then more urgently when she didn’t turn around, “Toby!”

She turned around, her grin sliding away when she saw my expression.

“Toby, the file isn’t opening!”

Eyes widening, she quickly hit a key to mute our voices. “Uh-oh. Hmmm. Okay, just wing it.”

“Wing it?”

“Esti, it’s a hike. Right foot, left foot, right foot. No big deal. You did it in Switzerland, right?”

She leaned in to press the record button again, and I froze. Make up a hiking experience?

“Esti!” She was hissing now. “Say something!”

Panicked, I hissed back at her, “Which mountain range is this anyway? Isn’t the Alps the tallest in Europe? Where’s the Arctic Isles, anyway? How come I never heard of it?”

There was a long silence.

Wait.

Chabad had never heard of the Arctic Isles, either.

Peter the Great, the Edict of Milan — the history didn’t make sense at all.

The hotel search yielded no hotels nearby. Not because there were no available dates, but because there were no hotels, period, because—

“I never heard of it,” I said disbelievingly, realization slowly dawning on me, “because it doesn’t exist. Right?”

Toby didn’t answer.

The Museum of Socks?

I exhaled. “You are wacko. Wacko!”

Hastily, Toby clicked off the record button. “Listen, it’s a joke, just a joke. Honestly, no one needed a real place, just the experience—”

“You made up a vacation spot?!”

“They made up that they’re going,” she said, voice rising, though she looked nervous now. “That’s what a virtual vacation is about, some people can’t travel, this is just a hike, okay? Listen, there’s dead space now, you need to fill in to give them the experience—”

“Give them the experience?” I half-shrieked. “Of hiking a mountain that doesn’t exist?”

“There’s dead space going on right now!” she screeched, losing her composure. “So yeah, it doesn’t exist! A hike is a hike, you just walk! Just say anything!”

“A hike is a hike,” I babbled. Oh, gosh. “Welcome to the Arctic Glaciers mountain range!”

My fingers clicked wildly on Google as I spoke, searching for images to upload onto the ScoopBoard. I honestly didn’t even know what exactly a glacier was and frantically typed in mountain range and pasted the first image that cropped up, noticing belatedly that a picture of Abraham Lincoln was staring at me from the screen. Well. If someone recognized Mount Rushmore, I’d let Toby talk herself out of it. A hike is a hike, anyway. A mountain is a mountain.

At least I knew what that was.

“We’ll start at the foot of the hill, and progress upward to see the most famous lake in Europe—” I cannot believe it took me this long to figure out Toby fabricated the entire location. There was no Chabad in the Arctic Isles because there was no Arctic Isles. I clicked another image, and a picture of a waterway filled the screen, filled with colorful boats. “Even more famous than the waterways in Venice!” At least I recognized those, from Toby’s Italy pictures from last year. It looked like the shot gracing her photobook cover.

Actually, it looked exactly like the shot gracing her photobook cover. Strange.

I spewed hiking gibberish as my own mental photobook for this make-believe tour flitted through my brain. The lavish hotel suites, thick carpeting, and porcelain Jacuzzis. The gourmet meals, made-in-China souvenirs, the Arctic Outhouse, the scenery. Taking hikes on mountains that don’t even exist and suddenly I felt like screaming and then my hand slipped and a humongous fish head exploded over the screen and I made eye contact with its eyeballs and nearly passed out.

“Okay, our tour guide Toby will take over,” I announced. I was done. I shoved the recorder toward Toby’s startled face and marched out the door, but not before I heard her recover and blather some nonsense about Finland and fins and the national food of the Isles.

Whatever. She’d be okay.

Time for me to scale my own mountains, though, and real ones this time.

But first, I needed to look through Toby’s pictures again.

Because the niggle of suspicion that had cropped up while I make-believe hiked the glaciers was slowly sprouting wings, and I needed to check if my theory was right.

Toby had sent her Italy photobook toward the end of last summer, and I searched my emails to dig it up. I examined the cover picture of Venice, opening the Google image I’d accessed earlier and comparing the two.

They looked identical; just in the first, Toby grinned at me from inside a purple gondola.

Was it real? Or did she photoshop herself in?

I skimmed the photobook. Sunday in Venice, Toby in gondolas and eating in the kosher pizza shop. Monday in Florence, featuring Toby haggling with a local over a pocketbook. Tuesday in Rome, posing near the arch of Titus. Toby smiling in front of an old Roman shul, Toby lost in a crowd near the Coliseum, Toby licking two gelatos, one in each hand.

A tickle of a memory — maybe from Dafna, who travels everywhere…

Sunday in Venice, Monday in Florence, Tuesday in Rome —

Wait. I leaned back, mind reeling.

There was no way Toby was in Italy last year, the way she claimed she was.

The Florence markets are closed on Mondays.

“You made up your Italy vacation!”

I barreled over to Toby’s house after confirming my suspicions online. I’d remembered Dafna’s story about her family’s botched planning a few years ago, and the San Lorenzo market featured in Toby’s pictures was definitely closed on Sundays and Mondays. Toby didn’t bother denying it, infuriating me more.

“And making up an entire tour! Setting me up with your craziness to eat make-believe food and sleep in make-believe luxury hotels and to hike make-believe mountains! I never hiked any mountains, let alone ones that don’t—”

And then my heart dropped, and I closed my mouth.

“Wait,” Toby said slowly, and I could almost see the wheels in her head turning. “Hold it. Just hold it right there. You said you never hiked a mountain? You never hiked a mountain. What about — wait.”

I opened my mouth, then clamped it shut.

“You didn’t go to Switzerland at all, did you?”

We ended up taking a weekend trip together the last week of August.

To Brooklyn.

“Hey, maybe we can visit Bingo,” I told Toby brightly, as we packed our bags in her trunk and climbed into the car.

Dafna stopped by to see us off, and I shot Toby a glance. We’d made a pact not to mention our vacation fiascos. “All set for the Isles of Brooklyn, O Masters of Tourism? Got your heels packed in case you hike down Avenue J?”

I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. “Okay, enough already. Any trip tips for us?”

“Look both right and left before you cross the street,” Dafna said. She was off with her family to Banff the next day, in the Canadian Rockies. “If you’re in Boro Park, look up and down too, you never know where the cars might — ha! Did you remember to pack your bathrobe again? It might get chilly in the car.” She winked.

Toby raised her eyebrows. “So that story didn’t—”

“No, that was true,” I said sheepishly, retreating into the car and closing the window. The story happened last year, a flight home from Toronto where I’d flown for a dead-end shidduch, ruining my President’s Day weekend. That is my life’s version of vacation. “Just not Zurich.”

I’d overstuffed my luggage with three potential date outfits and I didn’t know his height so packed both heels and flats and I hadn’t been able to get those to fit either so switched my Toms to three-inch wedges, and only after the shoes and bathrobe switch was I able to finally totter onto the plane — okay, no need for all the details. “So. Dafna’s family, you think they’re really going to the Rockies?”

I glanced at Toby. We sure were a pair, the two of us, creating a standard we can’t meet and then competing to raise the standard even higher. I wonder how many tour members were actually driving around with the I climbed Glacier Mountain bumper stickers Toby custom-made for the occasion. How many people were busily packing trail mix and guzzling Powerade and climbing mountains that don’t exist. Sheesh.

Through the window, I watched the blur of green trees as we accelerated onto the avenue, settling back comfortably in the passenger seat and stretching my legs out in front of me. I closed my eyes and tilted my head, enjoying the caress of the morning light filtering through the sun roof. I opened one eye, lazily, and squinted at Toby.

She shrugged. “Dafna? Who knows.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 602)