Christmas
Continued from Page 17
brother and his creepy friend when we passed Santa riding a
fi re truck on a main road in Newtown Square. Th e creepy kid
(who happened to be Jewish), rolled down the window and,
for whatever reason, shouted, “You stink, Santa!” Dad im-
mediately yelled at the kid — “Why would you tell Santa he
stinks?” — creating a lasting memory my brother and I laugh
about to this day.

Staff Writer Selah Maya Zighelboim
About two years before I moved to Philadelphia, I came here
for a week during winter break to visit a friend and check out
the local sites.

It’s no secret that fl ying
around the holidays is expensive,
but in perusing my fl ight possibil-
ities, I discovered one win-
ter day when fl ying would
be cheaper. (By cheaper, I
mean normal.)
Th at day was Christmas.

I headed to the airport Dec. 25
for what was the best airport
and fl ight experience of my
life. Th e Austin, Texas airport
was almost completely empty, and the handful of other fl yers and
airport employees there seemed to either be Jewish, Muslim or
Hindu. Th e lack of occupants made for a quiet and peaceful wait.

Th en came the actual fl ight.

Almost every seat on the plane was empty, to the point where
I cannot fathom how the airline made any money. Th ere was
one other man in my row, who when the fl ight attendant came
over to check on us before takeoff , asked, “Excuse me, ma’am, is
there any way a Marine fl ying on Christmas day could get a seat
with more leg room?”
Well, it’s hard to say no to a request like that, so I ended up
the only one in my row for the duration of the fl ight.

Unfortunately, the incredible secret of fl ying on Christmas
seems to have gotten out. I’ve fl own once on Christmas since
and had an entirely diff erent experience, with a cramped and
noisy airport and plane.

When I landed in Philadelphia from that incredible
fl ight, I met with my friend and we headed to Chinatown
for a proper Jewish Christmas celebration.

Staff Writer Joshua Needelman
I like Christmas.

Really, I do. No, we didn’t
celebrate the holiday grow-
ing up. We didn’t put up a
tree. But it’s impossible to
not notice how much better
COLEMATT/THINKSTOCK of a mood many people seem
to be in around Christmas.

I grew up on Long Island,
which has its fair share of Jews. But it also has plenty of non-
Jews, and their holiday spirit rubbed off on me. And it still does.

December is cold and dark, but when Christmas rolls around,
people play cheery music, decorate their houses with extrava-
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gant lights and, well, get drunk. What’s not to like?
Perhaps I was drunk with naiveté on Dec. 25, 2009. From my
experience, the world shuts on down on Christmas Day. We ate
in Chinese restaurants because they were all that was open in
our suburban town. So, with Dwyane Wade and the Miami Heat
set to play my beloved New York Knicks at Madison Square
Garden, I convinced two of my friends to tag along with me to
New York City.

Remember, this was back in 2009, before social media ruled
the world and everyone showed up to events with prepurchased
tickets on their smartphones. My plan was solid, I thought. We’d
take the Long Island Railroad into Penn Station, buy our tickets at
the box office, catch the Knicks game and maybe stop at a Chinese
restaurant. What else would be open?
Everything, it turns out. New York City
doesn’t close on Christmas Day, and
MSG was overflowing with
Knicks fans. We waded
our way to the tick-
et booth.

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STUDIOGSTOCK/THINKSTOCK No, we were informed, we could not have three tickets. The game
was sold out.

Crushed, my pals and I meandered about. How could the game
be so crowded? It was Christmas Day, after all.

We wandered back to Times Square, hoping for a miracle. We
found one — or, I thought I found one — in the form of an eager
man in a green jacket. He had three tickets, he told us, and he was
selling them at half-price. Did we have $120?
We huddled. “Let’s do it,” I said, perhaps blinded by holiday
spirit, perhaps feeling a little too trusting. One of my friends was
ambivalent. The other was resolute, insisting that, obviously, these
tickets were fake. Why else was he selling them so cheaply?
I demurred and, ultimately, my passion won out. We paid the
man, clutched the tickets and triumphantly strode up to security.

One quick scan of the barcode revealed the truth: We had been
duped. We had bought fake tickets.

Defeated, demoralized and humbled, we trudged away from
the Garden, away from Wade, away from what turned into a 93-87
Knicks loss. We found the nearest Chinese place, scarfed down
some dumplings and lamented what could have been.

My friends have never forgotten that day. Remember when you
made us buy fake tickets? Yes. Yes, of course I do.

The incident comes to mind every year once late-December
rolls around. I shake it off, though. Christmas is near, after all, and
everyone is seemingly in a better mood. I am, too. Except for one
small regret:
I’ve still never been to a Knicks game.

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