A Day in Jewish Los Angeles

It started Sunday morning, when dozens of teenage Jewish boys set up folding tables on Pico Boulevard (and outside a few residential garages) and began selling fragrant lulavim and etrogim to Jewish men who, let’s face it, waited until the last minute to buy the necessary staples for Sukkot. Or perhaps they waited on purpose to ensure they bought the freshest possible etrogim. Either way, the customers were lucky if they discovered an empty parking space half a mile away from the young entrepreneurs’ folding tables. 

Not one to be outdone by the procrastination of others, I foolishly waited until Sunday morning to visit a local kosher Persian supermarket, which, due to the upcoming Sukkot holiday, would be closed for the following two days. I observe the halachot of Jewish holy days and wouldn’t have been able to spend money shopping at another store, and besides, the kosher markets are the only places where I can buy kosher string cheese for my kids, who squeal at the sight of it and scoff at my gourmet Persian delicacies. 

Did I mention that in Los Angeles in 2022, a bag of kosher string cheese costs $17.99? I would have been enraged, but a few minutes earlier, I had picked up a small package of kosher Brie cheese for myself for a whopping $14.99. I don’t know the cows who procured such cheeses personally, but given such prices, those bovines better have been fed grass imported from Switzerland.

With the Sukkot holiday beginning in a few hours, the masses in the supermarket were overwhelming, but nothing could have prepared me for the 25-minute wait in line at the cashier. In fact, the line in which I stood (the short line) wrapped around the aisle of artificial Israeli juices and past the grass-fed ground beef (undoubtedly fed with grass from Switzerland).

With such long lines, tensions were invariably running high, and one irate man began yelling loudly at a supermarket manager when he wasn’t allowed to return an item. All of that screaming made some customers palpably uncomfortable, given that we were about to begin a time of the year known as Ziman Simchateinu (“The season of our joy”). Fortunately, an older Persian woman at another register ended the awkwardness of that man’s incessant yelling by loudly demanding to know why one bunch of tarragon cost $4.59. 

That woman was my mother.

I realized I wouldn’t trade such madness — boys blocking sidewalks with their lulav and etrog tables, the chaos of packed kosher markets and, yes, my mother — for anything. 

A few minutes later, as I helped my mother back her gigantic car out of the tight supermarket parking lot, only to hear the justifiably aggravated honks of other drivers, I realized I wouldn’t trade such madness — boys blocking sidewalks with their lulav and etrog tables, the chaos of packed kosher markets and, yes, my mother — for anything. 

Sometimes, I really love LA. 

Back in my own car, my son asked me if, like his Ashkenazi teacher, he should say “esrog” rather than “etrog.” I calmly smiled and responded that we’re Mizrahim; “etrog” is appropriate for us. When my son wasn’t satisfied with my response and threw a tantrum, questioning life because his teacher had used the “wrong” word, I promised myself a shot of esrog liqueur inside my hosts’ sukkah later that night.  

Later that day, I faced bumper-to-bumper traffic at the worst intersection of the city. It’s the worst for me, anyway, because it’s home to not one, but two disturbing, giant billboards advertising the hit AMC show, “American Horror Story,” or “AHS.” Each time I drive past those adjacent billboards, I find a way to distract my small children in the back seat from looking out of the window, but I can only make funny faces and cross my eyes for so long. Eventually, my face hurts.

Various frightening AHS imagery has been plastered on billboards in the area for years. And for years, I’ve wondered whether parents, particularly some Orthodox Jewish parents who don’t even allow televisions in their homes, have ever made formal complaints about these billboards. But I don’t think anyone has the power to have them removed. 

As the hours passed and Sukkot approached, I drove to the local dry cleaners and watched as the kosher markets and many other Jewish-owned businesses, including jewelry and watch shops, restaurants and bakeries closed for the holiday. There’s something beautiful about watching a black hat-clad Jewish man frantically run home, carrying a bouquet of roses. Either he was trying to get home in time for Sukkot, or he truly loves his wife, and fears slightly for his life if those roses don’t arrive.

That evening, the sight of countless little outdoor huts — flimsy, but illuminating with the soft light of open hearts (and fairy string lights) — was nothing short of magical. 

That evening, the sight of countless little outdoor huts — flimsy, but illuminating with the soft light of open hearts (and fairy string lights) — was nothing short of magical. As my family and I walked past sukkah after sukkah, my kids saw other homes with both mezuzot on the doorposts and fake, dangling ghosts and other Halloween decorations on the front lawns. When they asked if some Jewish families celebrate Halloween, I told them that’s the beauty of America, even if our family uses pumpkins for stews rather than lawn decor. Incidentally, my son was still angry at his “esrog”-wielding teacher. 

Once inside our host’s wonderful sukkah for dinner during the first night of Sukkot, I loudly declared how blessed we were to have such fine, Southern California weather so that we could truly enjoy being inside the sukkah, whereas other Jewish communities are currently burdened with heavy rains, winds and even snow. 

Then I proceeded to pour nearly three-quarters of a bottle of children’s lice repellant over my head and body, hoping to prevent mosquito bites inside the sukkah. In my defense, that bottle was the closest thing I found to bug repellent as I shamelessly (and secretly) went through the medicine cabinet in my hosts’ home. It’s a little-known fact that LA has claimed first place on Orkin’s annual Top 50 Mosquito Cities List for the second year in a row. 

Sometimes, I really hate LA. 

The next morning offered an incredible contrast: countless Jews holding lulavim and etrogim, pushing strollers or swinging bags of wine and desserts as they walked to the synagogue, home or the sukkahs of their hosts for meals.

As I watched these people — my people, the People of the Book — eat, drink, laugh and pray in these fragile sukkahs, I realized how little control man has over any turns of events. And Jews, in particular, seem more vulnerable to the whims of others.  

And that day, as countless Jews and non-Jews walked through the busy LA streets, past the incessant smog, cars, buses and that one strange, UberEats food delivery robot at foot level, they were all within eyesight of giant stickers plastered over two separate billboards at some of the busiest intersections in the city. On those giant stickers on billboards were written the words, “ZIONIST JEWS CONTROL AMERICA.”

Sometimes, I really don’t know how I feel about LA.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning LA-based writer, speaker and civic action activist. Follow her on Twitter @TabbyRefael