When navigating the streets of Manhattan – whether en route to the office, late for a happy ending in the back room of a nail salon, or paying a lustful visit to the moneyed geriatric in the Plaza Hotel penthouse – the fastest method of transport has always been the familiar yellow cab. Piloted by unfriendly Middle Easterners with consonant-choked names and a penchant for faking their understanding of English, the quality and comfort you relinquish is agreeably traded for speed. Said differently, while many drivers view their air conditioning as a malicious affront against gas mileage, preferring to bathe in the humid soup of car exhaust, these captains of transportation will sideswipe old women to usher their passengers in rapid succession. Yes, the irony of Arabs fouled by high energy prices is quite amusing, especially as their countrymen erect garish islands to resemble the world map. But nevertheless, haste is everyone’s friend in the bustling metropolis, as faster rides beget more passengers, more passengers equal more fares, and more fares score more falafels; to be munched from behind the wheel of a sweltering hotbox with busted shocks. There’s nothing quite like the American dream on overdrive.
During Passover, however, the rules change abruptly. Within the past week I bore witness to a caravan of RV’s barreling up Sixth Avenue, violating every traffic rule in the book with the surprising cooperation of the NYPD. Dubbed “Mitvah Tanks,” this monstrous convoy – numbering close to one hundred – tailgated at frighteningly short distances to block all cross-bound traffic, automobile or pedestrian. Once the masses realized that waiting out this procession was as futile as waiting for Detroit to build sellable cars, many began darting crazily into traffic, this writer included, scuttling pinball-like around bumpers to the consternation of police and drivers alike; a real-life Frogger game unfolding with death as the ultimate downside.
There’s a bewilderment to viewing a seemingly endless cavalcade of Hasidic Jews, heads flung through windows like friendly dogs, waving (or in one case, flipping the bird) to the jaw-slackened citizenry of Gotham. Fitted with rooftop air horns spewing MIDI-style renditions of “Hava Nagila” in pious ice cream truck style, this convoy acted as a moving billboard, with every inch of every vehicle splattered with orthodox dogma and tag-sale quality paintings of stoic rabbis. One almost senses the joy of observing a zoo on wheels; that childish excitement of watching circus trucks roar to the fairgrounds, kettle corn soon to sweeten the air. Except there are no animals in this circus. And God is the ringmaster.
For the gentiles among us, the Lubavitch Hasidim are a profoundly religious sect, prone to unkempt beards in the vein of a shipwreck victim or Al-Qaeda mastermind, and always recognizable by their dangling sideburns, often coiled as if massacred in a scuffle with a curling iron. In other words, people will resign to look like imbeciles if they believe exterior appearance trumps charitable deeds, thus shifting them into the heavenly (and always kosher) express line to the pearly gates. Some dole out the ‘Watchtower’ door-to-door. Some drive Mitzvah Tanks. I quietly wait for Armageddon and pray for both.
Since 1974, the feast of Passover has introduced a mode of transport quicker than any subway, bus, or cab in New York. When riding shotgun with a group of focused Jews – speeding so fast you’d think they were aiming to recrucify Jesus – one is guaranteed to never miss that happy ending appointment uptown. That said, I’m hardly a fan of standing out, especially among a crowd of drably suited Goyim. Plus, it would take me 10 years to grow a ZZ Top beard of that caliber, and I can’t stand matzoh. Perhaps I’m forever doomed to sweat through my clothes in an odorous taxi, even if the driver is an irritated curmudgeon with an “I’d Rather Be Blowing Up Planes” sticker slapped crudely to the bumper. At least cabbies help you with luggage.
During Passover, however, the rules change abruptly. Within the past week I bore witness to a caravan of RV’s barreling up Sixth Avenue, violating every traffic rule in the book with the surprising cooperation of the NYPD. Dubbed “Mitvah Tanks,” this monstrous convoy – numbering close to one hundred – tailgated at frighteningly short distances to block all cross-bound traffic, automobile or pedestrian. Once the masses realized that waiting out this procession was as futile as waiting for Detroit to build sellable cars, many began darting crazily into traffic, this writer included, scuttling pinball-like around bumpers to the consternation of police and drivers alike; a real-life Frogger game unfolding with death as the ultimate downside.
There’s a bewilderment to viewing a seemingly endless cavalcade of Hasidic Jews, heads flung through windows like friendly dogs, waving (or in one case, flipping the bird) to the jaw-slackened citizenry of Gotham. Fitted with rooftop air horns spewing MIDI-style renditions of “Hava Nagila” in pious ice cream truck style, this convoy acted as a moving billboard, with every inch of every vehicle splattered with orthodox dogma and tag-sale quality paintings of stoic rabbis. One almost senses the joy of observing a zoo on wheels; that childish excitement of watching circus trucks roar to the fairgrounds, kettle corn soon to sweeten the air. Except there are no animals in this circus. And God is the ringmaster.
For the gentiles among us, the Lubavitch Hasidim are a profoundly religious sect, prone to unkempt beards in the vein of a shipwreck victim or Al-Qaeda mastermind, and always recognizable by their dangling sideburns, often coiled as if massacred in a scuffle with a curling iron. In other words, people will resign to look like imbeciles if they believe exterior appearance trumps charitable deeds, thus shifting them into the heavenly (and always kosher) express line to the pearly gates. Some dole out the ‘Watchtower’ door-to-door. Some drive Mitzvah Tanks. I quietly wait for Armageddon and pray for both.
Since 1974, the feast of Passover has introduced a mode of transport quicker than any subway, bus, or cab in New York. When riding shotgun with a group of focused Jews – speeding so fast you’d think they were aiming to recrucify Jesus – one is guaranteed to never miss that happy ending appointment uptown. That said, I’m hardly a fan of standing out, especially among a crowd of drably suited Goyim. Plus, it would take me 10 years to grow a ZZ Top beard of that caliber, and I can’t stand matzoh. Perhaps I’m forever doomed to sweat through my clothes in an odorous taxi, even if the driver is an irritated curmudgeon with an “I’d Rather Be Blowing Up Planes” sticker slapped crudely to the bumper. At least cabbies help you with luggage.
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