"P

latform Nine and Three-Quarters?”

A street musician with dreadlocks banged on a set of drums in the corner of the train station. I pressed my hands over my ears trying to block out the noise as I gaped first at the wall looming ahead and then at the woman next to it.

I’d first met her two hours earlier that evening when she’d intercepted me wandering the neighborhood trying to clear my head after a particularly bad blowout with my mother.

“You’re overreacting!” Ima had yelled. “Those pastries were on special! I’m not forcing you into any decisions! Shuli calm down! Okay okay stop crying mammele see I’m putting these nice cakes right into the freezer no need for a l’chayim this week — well it would be good actually with Leah’le and Moishe still here from Chicago… Shulamis Esther Levine calm down! No that is not pressure! I’m being pragmatic! You can’t schlep forever…”

I hadn’t believed Rochela Kokosh at first as the middle-aged woman explained her shidduch program in a slight British accent. She was dressed all in black except for the green ribbon tied around her sheitel and matching green eyeglass frames. Time-Out Zone she’d called it for singles needing a break from shidduchim.

Two hours later I found myself at the train station gripping a small carry-on and garment bag.

“Okay remind me again how this works ” I said nervously. “I go on this break thingy and time stands still? How’d you even know about me? And no shidduch decisions? For how long?”

“Forget the time factor dear.” She ignored the middle part of my question. “Time doesn’t move. It’s not a break it’s a brake. With an ‘A.’ A time brake. The concept is derived from quantum mechanics — haven’t you heard of the quantum Zeno effect?”

“Um I’m not a science person.” A time brake. A place to escape decisions escape my bed piled high with clothing escape the reality of what to do about—

Okay don’t laugh but mentally I refer to him as “The Boy” — somehow that’s easier for me to deal with — or on occasion “the J-Man.”

“Quite simple once we worked out how to adjust the speed of light ” Mrs. Kokosh added. She pointed ahead of us. “Shall we?”

I stared dubiously at the wall stationed between Platform 9 and Platform 10 in Grand Central Station noticing the grandfather clock built in. Nine o’clock it read.

“Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?” I repeated. “You’re kidding me right?”

“Our techie was a Harry Potter fan ” Mrs. Kokosh explained. “You’re familiar with it surely? Simply hold onto your luggage and walk straight through — I promise it works.” She gestured again toward the wall. “Are you ready? Well then don’t pickle a pickle dear.” She gave me a firm push and the musician stopped drumming for a split second to flash me a peace sign. “Don’t think just go.”

So I did.

When I emerged on the other side, I noticed two things: First, the grounds were gorgeous. Second, other than Mrs. Kokosh, I was the only female there.

“Oh, dear, we’re in the men’s division,” Mrs. Kokosh said hastily. A bearded fellow in a trench coat rushed past. “We’ve been having some signal trouble — need to get that fixed — pardon me. We’ll walk, it’s barely half a mile.”

I nodded, surveying the lush grass, miniature lake, and row of cabins. On a nearby tennis court, a swarm of boys were jumping around, arms thrashing wildly, and Mrs. Kokosh followed my gaze.

“Oh, kazatzka exercise! It’s mandatory, 20 minutes daily — our long-term boarders develop muscle atrophy otherwise. We do it at our division, too.”

“Okay…” I glanced around. “A lot of people here.”

Mrs. Kokosh nodded. “Plus a waiting list.”

A waiting list? For boys? I started giggling.

“They have it worse, I sometimes think,” she said, and I sobered quickly. “The applications keep rolling in. Bein hazmanim, we call it. We just built a second dormitory, and we still kick them out after a week. Except the ones here on Starwoods points.” Pointing to a small building on the right surrounded by beautiful gardens, she continued, “That’s our non-shidduch division, for people needing brakes from dealing with other problems — health, parnassah, children.” She pointed to another grassy area further away. “And that’s where our cabins are.”

She explained more about the Zone as we hiked toward our division. “First, no cell phones,” she said. “Time is frozen, so you won’t be getting calls or texts—”

I love this place already.

"H

i, I’m Gila!” chirped a girl who looked no more than 15. Mrs. Kokosh had dropped me off in front of my cabin and disappeared. “I’m your roommate? You’re Shuli?” She looked at me eagerly, red curls flowing down her back, green eyes expectant. “The top bunk is yours but I can switch if you want? I saved the right half of the closet for your stuff? How many Shabbos outfits did you bring?”

She couldn’t have been more than 18. What was she doing here?

“Thanks,” I told her abruptly. “Gonna need time to unpack. Alone. If you don’t mind.”

“Oh! Okay! For sure!” She fingered her hair. “I was about to head to supper, anyway? Save you a seat?”

I dumped my suitcase near the shelves, noting her haphazard stash of shirts, jewelry, a brightly colored belt, curling iron, and— wait, please don’t tell me that’s a selfie stick?

“Sure,” I said, and as she turned away, I rolled my eyes.

T

ime-out.

A shidduch brake.

This. Is. Exactly what I need…

Eyes closed, I sank into the beach chair and stretched my legs on the deck table, welcoming the golden rays of early morning sunlight on my face. I took another slurp of coffee — I drink it black — and felt my woozy early morning brain cells clicking into place. I’d skipped dinner, heading to bed early. This morning, I’d left Gila snoring lightly as I quietly dressed and snuck outside into the mountain air.

The smell of waffles and real maple syrup — do you gain weight here? I need to ask Mrs. Kokosh — wafted from the dining area. Somewhere in a parallel universe, people buried their heads in pillows to avoid the stress and decisions heralded by yet another day, while I luxuriated in the Zone to the sound of crickets and an occasional splash in the pond.

“Hey.” The crunch of gravel a few feet away forced my eyes open. A tall girl approached, panting slightly. “I’m Chayala. Just did my morning walk — gorgeous here — another early riser? You’re new, right? Hold, let me get water first.”

She left to the kitchen. By the time she reappeared, another three girls had wandered out, followed by Gila.

“Okay, introductions first, then kazatzka!” Chayala announced, and one by one, I learned about my fellow Time-Out Zoners.

“Was almost engaged and I’m not talking about it.” This from Dafna, age 30, an acerbic-looking blonde who managed to look great in a black slinky skirt and velour hoodie. “But I’m here. Possibly forever.”

“Zero dates in 18 months,” Chana, age 29. “But nineteen e-mails! Nineteen random people my mother made me e-mail my r?sum? to, not to mention the kevarim I’ve visited. And I’m batting a zero… Maybe because I am a zero…”

“Here since the day before my birthday.” Miriam, age 19-plus-ten, as she’d called it. “My 30th birthday, two years ago in real-time. Kokosh tried kicking me out but I’ve got squatter’s rights. I can get you my lawyer if you need.”

Then it was Gila’s turn.

“I’m Gila?” she said, smiling hopefully. She was the only one with a full face of makeup. “I’m back from seminary. My parents, grandparents, they’re all scared, I have one older sister, she was 23 when she finally got married.” Dafna’s thin eyebrows shot up. “Everyone’s stressed, I’m stressed, so… I needed a brake. And once I’m here, maybe I can pick up some shidduch advice!”

How did Kokosh allow this?

“Dump him fast, before he dumps you,” Dafna retorted. “That’s my advice. And if he starts talking engagement, get that statement notarized—”

“You next,” Chayala interrupted, pointing at me.

“And maybe hide his passport.” Dafna folded her arms and nodded at me grimly.

“Uh, Shuli Levine.” I stopped abruptly, looking around me. I never yenta-talk shidduch specifics. But five expectant faces stared back. “I’m in the middle of… whatever. Going out, I guess. The shadchan, my parents, the boy, everyone’s ready… I don’t know. Whatever. I needed a brake. With an ‘A.’ ”

“How old are you?” Gila asked. I told her, and her jaw dropped. “Thirty-one? I think you should just marry him.”

I stiffened. “And I think you and your stupid seminary issues should get kicked out—”

“Hey, chillax,” interrupted Chayala. “So what’s his name? The boy?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Sorry, ich bin massive yenta.”

“That’s classified information.”

“Absolutely.” She grinned.

I sighed. “I call him the J-Man,” I admitted, “and I’m not saying anything else.”

“I’m also in the middle of a parshah, but doesn’t sound as advanced as yours.”

“How many times?”

“Five.”

“Get over yourself,” Dafna interjected. “Five dates does not a parshah make. In my opinion.” She sipped her coffee. “A pasuk, maybe. Perek, max.”

“Well, technically, I’m in the middle of Date Six now—”

“You’re in the middle? By in the middle, you mean—”

“He’s still at the Waldorf.” Chayala looked sheepish. “I timed-out.”

Dafna choked, spewing coffee all over her sweater.

“You ditched him mid-date?” Gila shrieked, above Dafna’s hacking coughs, then covered her mouth quickly. “Sorry, sorry. You are completely, totally entitled.”

Chayala shrugged. “Time stopped, didn’t it? And — whatever. I needed to think things over.”

“What happened?” I waggled my eyebrows back at her; my turn to be yentish. “C’mon, tell Tante Shuli e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g!”

Chayala propped her feet on the deck table. “Well, it’s kinda complicated.”

I waved my arm expansively. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Can I pass?” Chayala’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bottom line, I took a Time-Out.”

Chana sighed. “Didn’t we all. Okay, kazatzka!”

“Nu, Shuli?” Chayala asked, as we started our warm-up. “Any more details about your J-Man issues? Just between friends.” She winked.

“That’s classified information,” I said primly.