Yesterday evening, walking down Lincoln Road, I found a small group gathered in front of a menorah. A young woman held a long pole with a flame at the end; the smell of burning oil mingled with the scent of fried potatoes, as a covered tray of latkes sat behind a table. Many of the men wore yarmulkes.
At six, three visitors from Israel were handed the pole to light two candles. I took a photo with my smartphone, and then posted in on Instagram, double-checking to see that I spelled Chanukah correctly.
