When I was stressed and when I was eating poorly, I knew I had one respite: Shabbat. Friday night in Israel is my favorite time of the week. While the weekend in America is a time for people to go out, run errands and complete chores, Shabbat in Israel is truly used as the day of rest, especially in our small city of Ramla.

The holiday starts at about noon on Friday, as most stores (except convenience stores and the shook) close for the week’s end.

In the evening, the city is even quieter than it was during daylight. Nobody drives anywhere because a Bait Cennesset (house of prayer) is minutes away by foot. After dinner, with the entire family gathered in a house or apartment, everyone sits together for Shabbat dinner. While Israelis’ demeanor is far from perfect in their everyday activities, the one thing that sets them apart is everyone’s loyalty, generosity and caring for the mishpachah (family).

Most of us metnadveem (volunteers) don’t have blood relatives in Israel, so each of us was “adopted” by a local family so that we could not only get a good meal on Shabbat but also find a place to feel safe and cared for. I have been fortunate enough to experience Shabbat with my adopted family in Ramla, as well as my real mishpachah (my cousins and aunt whom my brother met nearly 10 years ago but I never saw) in Rananah, a city about 45 minutes away by train.

My first Shabbat started with Shabbas service. Starting from about 6:30 p.m., men stroll to schul. While in the United States, “Shabbas Best” includes a shirt, tie and usually a sports jacket, the hot air in Israel allows for polo shirts and light white sleeveless buttoned-down shirts. Another thing, everyone saunters in throughout the service, yet they can walk into the middle of a prayer and file in with everyone else. Sitting in my blue long-sleeve shirt and tie, I felt even more out of place since I didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t read the text fast enough, and I couldn’t look over my shoulders at the page number for the daveners next to me because 20 different versions of the prayer book exist. Still, the uncle of my host family followed along with me for the prayer so at least I could feel part of something even if I knew very little of what the text was saying. (The next week I was able to recognize letters faster, so I got lost less often.)

After services, as dinner is being prepared, wherever I’ve been, I’m continuously offered anything that may make me comfortable: water, a pre-dinner snack, air conditioning, an English television show. When I say that all I want is water, my family will ask, “Are you sure? We’ve got soda.” I can’t go five minutes without being offered something that would make me more comfortable.

But my mouth really waters for Shabbat dinner. After short prayers (the Chamotzey for bread, and the Kiddush for wine), we can dig into appetizers. The appetizers are good enough for a meal (which I first thought they were). At my first dinner I saw dishes of hummus, Israeli salad, melafutz (pickles), eggplant, potato cakes and more. I put as many condiments on the challah, and when the Jewish bread ran out, I feared that my meal would end as well. Instead the mom brought out full plates of the meal. For her sons and husband she brought a plate of beef, and for me and one of my roommates she gave us fish. With our food about half finished, she asked, “Is it all right? Do you want chicken?” With my plate clean, she asked, “Do you want more?” I ate a little more, said I was full and satisfied (ani sveyah), and I was still nudged to eat more.

When I spent a weekend with my mishpachah in Renanah, they fed me exceptional food (I ate fondue for the first time ever), bedded me for three days, washed my laundry and even took me to Pirates of the Caribbean, yet they apologized that they didn’t have enough planned for me. I felt I needed to apologize that I needed to do more for them.

Shabbat is such an amazing experience not only because of the wonderful food but also because of the experience. Even though I live in the same house with my parents in Denver, we can never consistently eat together. I am never at home for dinner because of my Villager, grad school and other commitments. When we do eat together as a family, we’re always in the middle of something else or focused on “Wheel of Fortune” or rushing to finish eating before episodes of “Cold Case” or the “Amazing Race.”

Sure, after Shabbat dinner most Israeli youth go out to the party with their friends at clubs or bars, but for two to three hours, from 8 p.m. until 10 or 11 p.m.., nobody has any responsibility except to enjoy the presence of their family members.