My mediocre birthday and some Brazilian sentimentality

Yesterday was my birthday.  I turned 27.  It was a pretty 'meh' birthday as far as birthdays go.  I hadn't had the best week so I didn't really feel like celebrating.  I'm not going to go into it, I don't want this blog to be too much of a downer.  I'm well past my emo days, thank fuck.

Anyway, yesterday morning I dragged my arse out of bed at 8.30am on a Saturday, showered and got dressed because I promised my mother (why the hell did I do that?) that I would attend synagogue at 10am.  So, not only was my birthday going to be mediocre, I wouldn't even get a lie-in.

I got to the synagogue and got a very polite third degree treatment from the two security guards dressed entirely in black: black suits, black shirts, black ties.  Oswald Mosley would have been proud.  The second one asked me in perfect english for my passport, of which I carry a photocopy with me everywhere because I'm not idiotic enough to carry around an original.  People want to see your passport for the stupidest reasons in this country - like in order to get into a synagogue, for instance.  He went behind the big metal electronic sliding door for 5-10 minutes doing god knows what before he decided to let me in.

I had skipped breakfast and my morning coffee, so as I took my place next to my mother in the third row from the front all I could think was "I hope the time passes quickly so I can stuff my face at kiddush".

Then something unexpected happened.  There were two simchas (celebrations) happening at the synagogue: a barmitzvah and the naming of a baby girl.

First, the family of the baby came up to the bimah (large table at the front of the synagogue) and they announced her hebrew name and her portuguese name, Catarina, to the congregation.  The Rabbi asked the father to explain the reason for her being named Catarina.  The father stepped forward to microphone, said something unintelligible to my ears (everyone was speaking in portuguese) for about 10 seconds then his voice broke and he started crying.  His wife and two teenage daughters that were standing behind him also started crying.  He was speaking in fits and starts and mentioned something about his "avó" (grandmother).  I looked around the room and could see other people crying.  I looked at my mother and she was crying.  I realised I was crying too.

After that was over, the Barmitzvah boy came to the bimah and his father joined him.  His father read a brief speech, held his shit together, gave his son a long and emotional hug, then went back to his seat.  Next was the Barmitzvah boy's little brother - he couldn't have been more than 9 years old.  He was already sobbing before he got to the Bimah.  I couldn't really understand what he said either (something about whenever he has a question or a problem, his brother is always there for him), but I was bawling my eyes out along with everyone else regardless.  By the time the mother came up to the Bimah, I was all cried out, she talked for a long time and my mind wandered.  But it was all very emotional and everyone was in tears.

This is the polar opposite of what goes on at a British synagogue.  Yes, the whole family will be there but they'll be bitching behind each others backs, looking around the room at who dressed well and who looks a mess, making sarcastic jokes during the speeches, hiding their boredom ineffectively, and generally clock-watching.  Every eye in the house will be dry.  Jewish family rituals are generally seen as a chore.  There will be the odd member of the family saying "isn't it a lovely simcha?" but everyone finds them annoying anyway, so their opinion is generally disregarded.  OK, it's not always that bad but there's a lot of that going on.

After the service, there were two kiddushim going on in two separate halls.  The entire congregation was invited to both.  The baby one was nice but more like a normal kiddush.  The Barmitzvah one was a real party.  There was a lot of very good & very expensive food on a beautiful long buffet table, with real cutlery and plates, a flower display, another table for dessert, chocolates and sweets, 15 round tables exquisitely laid out, catering staff with headsets roaming around handing out champagne and soft drinks, clearing empty plates, there were 2 DJs, a sound system, and a dancing area.  Usually in England this kind of thing would be reserved for family and friends; it would be by invite only.  But no, this was a party for the entire congregation.  People of all ages joined in with the usual dancing you get at any Barmitzvah or Jewish wedding.  It was lovely. 

A gang of eastern european octogenarians took me round to both parties and kept plying me with straight vodka shots (they don't have standard shot measures here, FYI - it's whatever size you want it to be) until I had to leave at 2pm, on slightly unsteady feet.

I'm definitely starting to feel at home here.