Gloved hands gripped the frigid handlebars of a cheap Target bike as I searched the streets of suburban Boulder for Jews. I was on a mission that Saturday morning, and for once it had nothing to do with curing a hangover or the cleaning up of broken glass; it was time to reconnect with my roots. Pulling to an intersection across the street from a Mercedes Benz dealership, I glanced back to the high peaks of the Rockies standing shoulder-to-shoulder under a pristine blue sky. Snow-capped gods overlooking a waking town, they urged me on.

Angling my front tire down a side street, I approached the synagogue of Congregation Bonai Shalom, a modern octagonal building with adjoining offices, ringed by trees. A single family was keeping warm in their minivan in the parking lot. I circled the lot looking for a bike rack -- no luck. As I pedaled back to the main road, a large bearded man and his wife, both in white robes, made their way down the drive, regarding me with cold stares.

In the 15th century, according to the genealogy research of my father, my ancestors lived in Spain, where they had recently converted to Christianity from their native Judaism. When the Inquisition began executing |conversos||, the Solomons changed their named to "Salamone" to save their necks. Yet the heat came down again, so they hopped a boat for Sicily.

It makes sense that my ancestors were Jewish -- Solomon was the son of King David.

It also makes sense that I should seek to learn more about my ancient faith, so a week after New Year's, I went looking for a synagogue.

What I was not looking for was bunch of hippies singing watered-down Jewish folk songs and being all nice to each other: to truly tap the deep vein of Hebrewism flowing somewhere beneath centuries of Pope-worship and spaghetti sauce, I would need the hardcore shit. Which brought me to Bonai Shalom.

Bonai Shalom Congregation is part of the Egalitarian Conservative movement, a strange hybrid of pre-modern Orthodoxy and post-modern political-correctness (this was Boulder, after all). All members are allowed to read from the Torah and to lead the congregation in prayer, yet the content is explicitly traditional.

Only a handful of people were in the main hall when I donned a black yarmulke, grabbed a Torah and song book, and sat in the back. Rabbi Doug Weber, just a few weeks away from a Sabbatical in which he would (according to the congregation's website)"read, ski, and write a book," was rushing through the opening |Pzukei D'zimra||, all in Hebrew. His back was to us as he swayed from side-to-side and kept time by thumping his thick fingers on the podium.

This lasted for another twenty minutes as more people straggled in. A well-to-do family of four sat to my left, the father in a three-piece suit with a traditional |tallit|| prayer shawl covering his shoulders and a fancy, white and black |yarmulke|| on his head. Behind them, a lone bearded thirty-something in faded black jeans and tennis shoes read along with a finger skimming the thin page of his book. Further towards the front were the die-hards, two middle-aged men and one ancient patriarch (all in shawls, as most of the men were), who kept up with the Rabbi's every word and muttered added prayers during the pauses.

A female rabbi visiting from Israel, one Claudia Kremen (the woman who frowned at me in the parking lot), followed with the singing of the Shacharit, another incomprehensible text lit up by the small woman's soaring voice.

Unlike a Catholic mass, which is a point-A-to-point-B series of controlled rituals led entirely by the pastor and his assistants before an obedient audience, Shabbat at Bonai Shalom is a rambling, chaotic affair, with congregants wandering all over the room, chatting with each other during the readings, standing or sitting as they see appropriate. At the hour and a half mark, the seats were almost entirely filled, and it was time to bring out the Torah.

The Ark -- basically a closet at the back of the altar -- was opened, and the two massive scrolls were brought forth, covered in a mauve velvet slipcover, adorned with a jangling metal crown and several garlands. A little blonde kid received a second, smaller children's Torah, a scroll-shaped pillow decorated in red, green, and a smiley face.

At this point everyone went ape shit, chatting and singing as the Torah and Torah Jr. were paraded around the room. I didn't realize until they'd passed by that I was supposed to touch the Torah with my book, and then kiss the book as everyone else had done.

Reb. Weber went on to discuss the significance of the upcoming Torah reading. It had something to do with Jacob and the Book of Genesis and the slow, unnoticeable process by which the Jews became slaves to the Egyptians.

"This story shows why our people must always be vigilant," he said. "It is also analogous to what happened to the Jews in Nazi Germany, as well as to our own time -- "

for a split second I thought he was going to denounce the Bush administration's assault on civil liberties after 9/11, but alas

" -- with Islamic terrorism."

A number of congregants, men and women, each took their turn reading/singing in various keys from the Torah, as I struggled to figure out which page in Genesis I was supposed to be on. I tried to read the numerous commentaries that went along with the passage, tedious analyses of the complex web of tribes, towns, and Yahweh, but my eyes kept wandering; there was not a single available female in the whole joint.

At the call and response, I found it rather easy to mimic the underlying melodies, while my lips struggled to fake the actual Hebrew syllables. It became apparent that the words were not important at all -- the resonance of vocal tones throughout the congregation was the real glue binding us. I opened my lungs and sang unembarrassed, one more soul exalting the Mystery.

Just then the big bearded man in white shot me a withering glance on his way to the bathroom. Upon returning, he stood in the aisle behind me for a full minute, as if to be sure I was singing the right words.

The Torah reading went on. Just then an usher leaned over and asked me if I would like to return the Torah to the Ark.

"Um, I, um..."

"Are you Jewish?" she asked.

"...no."

"I'm sorry, we need a Jewish person to do it," and she walked away.

The only other freak in the place, a dark-skinned Southeast Asian kid with a lacy white yarmulke, was volunteered to return the holy scrolls. He struggled to lift them from the altar table and was helped by the rabbi, then the Torah readers returned the slipcover, garlands, and crown, and the kid had to sit on the altar with the heavy scrolls in his lap for the next twenty minutes.

Then a middle-aged woman read the |Haftarah|| -- more monotony. Congregants continued to stream in, and the Rabbi milled about before kneeling beside me.

"Are you new here?" he asked, his trim goatee turned up in a smile.

"Yes," I said, glancing at my copy of the Torah to make sure I was on the right page.

"New to Boulder?"

"Yes."

"Where are you from?"

"Buffalo."

He went on to point out that an elderly gentleman in a blue sweater seated in the front row had lived in Buffalo all his life. Apparently, Bonai Shalom was borrowing its Torah from the conservative Jewish center in Buffalo. I tried to act impressed.

The Torah made another pass around the congregation (this time I made sure to act accordingly) before being returned to the Ark with more singing and bowing. Then the featured guest, Rabbi David Lazar from Israel, was introduced, and the bearded man in white took the stage.

I gulped, expecting a tirade on the dangers of false Jews and people named Salamone. He was going to single me out and scream Yiddish expletives for the next hour, and then a dour-faced security goon would escort me to the back courtyard for a stern lecture and a flogging.

But instead he talked about tourism.

Now, it's the rare Catholic that has actually been to the Holy Lands, let alone the Vatican. But every Hebrew, it seems, is expected at some point to make a trip to Israel, for as Reb. Lazar polled the congregation on the geography of the homeland, the majority of people murmured their understanding.

He focused particularly on one obscure town founded by the Danite tribe, who were commanded by God to be like "|a serpent by the way, a viper by the path||" (Genesis 49:17) in order to ambush their enemies, which Reb. Lazar likened to a "necessary form of terrorism." He then went on to decry Islamic terrorism around the world, praised Rabbi Weber for having the balls to talk openly about Peace, and waxed optimistic on the Bush Administration's continual evocation of the word "God."

Weber then returned for community announcements (including a notice about a one-day Hebrew language class), and called for congregants to say aloud the names of loved ones who had died or were suffering. For a third time, the specter of Islamic terrorism was invoked.

As the end of third hour approached, Lazar led the group in the final musaf, which elicited the greatest amount of bowing to-and-fro by the die-hards in the front. At this point everyone was singing as we faced a wall of plaques to the right of the altar; the mood was one of joy.

"Now I've noticed that some of the young people -- "

my spine stiffened as Lazar spoke

" -- have found it hard to stay awake for the entire service, so I will use the fastest melody I know for the final verse."

He then ran through the last twelve-line stanza of the closing hymns to the tune of the William Tell Overture, which elicited laughter throughout the room.

As the service ended, I dashed for the door. A clean-cut father stood in my way, helping his young daughter with her coat.

"Shabbat Shalom," he said with a smile.

"Shabbat Shalom," I replied as I angled around him. "Excuse me."

"Won't you join us for food in the basement?" asked a tall woman in green velvet and curls as I put my books on the shelf by the door.

"Sure," I said, and bee-lined it for the coat rack.

"Are you going to join us for lunch?" asked a thin gray-hair escorting his bouncing eight-year-old down the stairs.

I looked past him to see small children running around, elated worshippers catching up with each other, and a group of women setting out salads, cookies, bread, cheese and small cups of juice on a row of tables.

"Sorry," I said, removing the yarmulke, "I have to go."

Each of these people were offering me new roots, a place in a living community connected to millions of people across the span of time, exactly what I was seeking to embrace -- and I balked. It became apparent then that I was not at Bohai Shalom to embrace anything. I was there as a voyeur, and this was spiritual tourism at its worst. What did I expect?

A lone horse was standing in the mud of a miserable paddock alongside Cherryvale as I made my way back to the bus stop where I had locked my bike. The poor brown animal shivered under a blue shawl as the last strains of the Musaf echoed through my head.

"Hey there, horsy!" I said.

The horse just blinked, uncomprehending in the brilliant sun.