Sunday, June 24, 2018 6:15 AM

Children race past me into the elevator at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers. They seem to be playing a game of three-dimensional tag or hide-and-seek. They argue: "There are stairs to the left." "No! He'll expect us. We'll go to the right." They run back out. In the dining hall, Grandmothers summon the kitchen staff again. They don't approve of a set of pastries: someone sprinkled the tops with flour rather than powdered sugar. I think the pastries, round buns with fruit filling, are wonderful as they are, but my taste buds might be too forgiving. When I leave, the lobby's sliding doors don't automatically slide. They are still in Sabbath mode, so they don't sense me approaching. I open them by hand, but I'm too tired to try to explain the problem in Hebrew to the guard. I wave at him and manually work the doors. He nods. I hope he understands.