A long time ago, on a Friday afternoon when I still worked at my first and only corporate job, I was sitting on a Boston Green Line train. We passed a line of brownstones and I wondered what would happen if I convinced myself I was an old Boston Brahmin and walked up the front steps like I owned the place. Maybe the force of my dream would make it all real.
I ran out of time. The stop signal clanged and I had to debark for a bus transfer.
A few months later, I boarded a plane for a dusty dairy and parsley farm in Israel.