On a day last week I boarded the Number 3 train at Chambers Street and got off in Jerusalem. That’s what it felt like.
Rising up into the sunlight in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, was like falling down a rabbit hole, at the bottom of which moved gusts of black-bearded, white-shirted Hasidic men and their chubby, child-laden women. I could have been back in Jerusalem’s Sanhedria and Geula districts, which some people say is like being back in Brooklyn. I like the idea of places that get mind-tossed across oceans like Frisbees.