It was Friday night, the sun was setting, and my father decided that he wanted to celebrate the Sabbath like a good Jew. Sure, some people come to Rio de Janiero for the beaches, the music, the bikini waxes, but not my father. And this action was particularly puzzling as Brazil is neither a country known for its Jewish population, nor is my family terribly religious.

After getting the name of a synagogue from the concierge, he set off with my mother and no command of Portuguese. And after twenty-five minutes of walking, it turned out that no such synagogue existed.

“Well, we tried. Let’s head back,” my mother said.

And just as my father was about to respond, he spotted a Jewish couple. How do you know they were Jewish, you anti-Semite, you ask? Well, let’s just say nothing screams Heeb like payas (those curly sideburns) and an accompanying woman with a long skirt and a stroller full of babies.

“Perfect!” My mother exclaimed. “I bet they know where there’s a synagogue. Go ask them.”

“And how am I supposed to ask them?” my dad said, frustrated.

Frankly, I think there are a lot of ways he could have explained himself. Simulate praying. Draw a Star of David in the air. Show them you’re circumcised. Instead he said, “Let’s just follow them and see where they’re going.”

And that’s when my father started his Jewish reconnaissance mission. And as my mother knew it was fruitless to argue, she went along for the ride. I don’t know if it’s because my father was in the army during Vietnam—albeit it was language school—which made him feel like trailing someone was a good idea, but off they went.

Whenever they feared they would be “discovered” they would jump into the nearest doorway, like some kind of two member A-Team gone horribly wrong. They followed the couple for three miles, past the beach, past the prostitutes, the pick pockets, and the many salsa and meringue clubs that filled the city.

Finally, the Jewish couple entered a building. Only problem was that it was someone’s house. Seems the couple was heading to dinner, and not to hang with God just yet. My parents dejectedly began the trek back to find our hotel.

Luckily, the expedition wasn’t a total loss: my mother found a “Curves” gym, which she belongs to in the states, and it thrilled her to no end. Apparently, it’s just the little capitalist things.

- by Emily Epstein of b’scuse me? fame.