My World Atlas
One of the requirements for entering high school, which in Vienna begins at age ten, was the purchase of a Welt Atlas.
I have mine to this day.
Bound in red linen with gold letters and covered in translucent plastic, it was one of my most precious possessions. Today, nearly every page has come loose, yet somehow they remain in the correct sequence.
The atlas taught me geography, but also something more important: how to dream.
Our mother bought us children’s encyclopedias and lexicons, but it was this large red book on my desk that transported me to faraway places.
I did the same at the airport when we went to meet a beloved uncle or my younger brother returning from Torah Vodaas, his Yeshiva, in New York.
A huge black and white board covered the arrival hall wall, announcing flights from Tokyo, London, Milano, Rome, Paris and Madrid. I would stare at those names and plan imaginary journeys, just as my finger traveled across the atlas from one country to another.
Why am I thinking about my atlas today?
This morning, I opened my phone and read about the disaster in Nepal. It hit me hard, and I began to weep.
A natural catastrophe feels different from war. There is no enemy to blame, no army to stop, no negotiation to end it.
I remembered the terrible tsunami in Thailand. Had I learned about tsunamis in geography class? Vaguely.
And now Nepal.
A wall of glacier ice crashed into a narrow river valley, sweeping away bridges, houses, cars and, most tragically, human beings.
At moments like this, as a religious Jew, I cannot help thinking about the immense power of G-d and how small we are by comparison.
Earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions.
And now, a glacier collapse.
I knew exactly where to find Nepal in my atlas. After reading the news, I searched for the river connected to the catastrophe: the Trishuli. The thin blue line on my old map barely had room for its name, but the news had given it an entirely new meaning.
When our children left home, Raphy and I began traveling extensively, seeking faraway places where Chabad was within reach.
Once, while visiting Vietnam, I called my father to wish him a Good Shabbos.
“Where will you be for Shabbos, mein Tochter?” he asked.
“Papa,” I told him, “there is a Chabad in Saigon.”
He immediately replied:
“I will become a Lubavitcher Chasid. Mein Tochter has kosher food in Vietnam!”
I smile whenever I remember his words.
A few faraway destinations remain on my bucket list, and the tragedy in Nepal has not diminished my desire to see them. If anything, it reminded me how vast, unpredictable and magnificent our world is.
That ten year old girl in Vienna lives inside me, sitting at her desk with her red Welt Atlas open, tracing borders and rivers and wondering what it would feel like to stand in those places one day.
I have been blessed to turn many of those dreams into journeys, and I am not ready to close my atlas.
There are pages waiting to come alive.
My Wanderlust remains.
