Upstairs, Downstairs

When I was in the eighth grade, our grade went on a weekend retreat, or, in the Jewish parlance, a Shabbaton. What fun! It was winter, and we stayed at this rather large chateau in the country. We boys slept upstairs, the girls slept downstairs, and the main activities were on the ground floor.

On the Sabbath day, after prayers, the Sabbath meal, and some activities, most of us retired to our respective floors for an afternoon nap.

I woke up and looked around me. Familiar faces. The faces of the girls of my grade. The initial groggy pleasure at seeing their faces was soon replaced with confusion, disorientation and curiosity. How on earth had I gotten downstairs when I had gone to sleep upstairs with the guys? I didn't, and to this day don't, have a history of sleep-walking. But apparently, I had a case of somnambulism on that day. Certainly, there was a motivation on that day to end up in a different sleeping quarters than the one I had settled down in. Anyhoo, if memory serves correctly, one of the teachers discreetly escorted me back upstairs.

Flash forward three years. I'm schmoozing with one of my high school friends -- who had not attended the same school I did in the eighth grade -- and reminiscing about the aforementioned Shabbaton. His response: "Oh, that was the Shabbaton where a bunch of guys carried you down to the floor where the girls were sleeping!"

Hmmm...