A crowd of teenage boys is waiting at the bus stop, each with a suitcase at his side
IT’SSunday morning, the second day of Iyar, and the summer zeman is about to begin.
The first thing I notice at the Bar Ilan/Shmuel Hanavi bus stop is the suitcases. Usually this bus stop is filled with ponytailed girls hurrying to school, adults headed to work, the standard mother/baby combo. Today it’s different. A crowd of teenage boys is waiting, each with a suitcase at his side.
A bus lumbers into the stop to the background music of the a cappella selection playing from the hardware store, and we climb inside. I look around and take in all those suitcases.
One suitcase belongs to a boy with a blond shock of hair and ruddy cheeks — imagine if Norman Rockwell would live on Bar Ilan for a week; this is the boy he’d draw.
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