Searching for Eliyahu

I was hesitant to go, worried that we couldn’t quite escape our woes via airplane, but my husband convinced me that it would do us all good.

By the time I found myself gazing upon rows of gorgeous cacti as we left the Phoenix airport, I’d signed on to his theory. The feel of sun on our skin, the happy smiles on our children’s faces as they tossed me the winter coats they’d needed just hours before — I was convinced our streak of tzaros was finally behind us.

We popped by some grocery stores; arrived at our vacation home rental in a car filled to the brim with suitcases, grocery purchases, and positive energy; and hopped into the private pool that greeted us in the yard. After swimming enough to work up an appetite, we headed out to dinner at a local restaurant. Last year, we’d made the rookie mistake of just walking into a local restaurant during “yeshivah week” and expecting to find an open table; this year, we’d learned from our experience and made the reservation a week prior.

We quickly learned that getting a reservation is only half the dining-during-peak-time battle. When we arrived, the neat “reserved” sign beckoned to us from a gleaming table. But we soon discovered it would take 15 minutes to get menus, another 15 minutes to get the attention of any wait staff, another 15 minutes to order, and at least another 30 minutes to get our food.