“Jessie! Turn around so I can film you throwing up!” Addie, my Israeli cinematographer, barked as tear gas engulfed us signaling the protest had officially begun. I turned toward the camera and finished hacking up the remaining smoke from my lungs before signaling a cut. The scene was over. I was ready to go home. I 
came to Israel to find my Jewish identity, so what was I, a nice Jewish girl from Atlanta, running around in a polka dot dress on the Palestinian side of the West Bank choking on tear gas for? This wasn’t exactly the kosher “Eat Pray Love” journey I had anticipated. After two weeks in Israel, I was starving, single and, as the tear gas bombs started up again, apparently farther from God than ever before.
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