The Jewish people are only too familiar with exile and exodus. But these days it's an exodus of their own choosing.
Every Passover, tens of thousands of Jewish families sell their homes (temporarily!) and head to a luxury hotel or resort for the duration of the holiday. It is a huge overlooked corner of the tourism industry: for a minimum of eight days at prices that start around $1,500 a head, families that sprawl across generations consume obscene amounts of food and entertainment, plus travel expenses. But why Passover?
In the story of the Exodus, Jews were freed from slavery and rushed out of Egypt so quickly that their bread didn't have time to rise. To commemorate, Jewish law states that during Passover, no bread, grains or leavened products -- known as chametz -- can be eaten or even remain on your property. Couch cushions, book pages, baby cribs, telephones, radiators, pants cuffs and pockets -- all have to be scoured for renegade foodstuffs.
Depending on the level of observance, Passover preparation can range from a stressful Spring cleaning to a full-blown, commando-style search-and-destroy mission that begins months beforehand. Plus, there's significant food preparation to do, especially if extended family is involved.
It's stressful and time-consuming, but where there's a need, there's a religious loophole. As with the infamous Shabbos Goys (Gentiles who do work for Jews on the Sabbath; their ranks have reportedly included Martin Scorcese, Colin Powell, Elvis Presley and even Barack Obama), sometimes Jews need a hand from the non-Chosen Ones.
Jewish law allows the sale of chametz to a non-Jew, who's the technical owner of the household for the duration of the holiday, after which it's bought back. In practice, the congregation appoints their rabbi as an agent who sells the communal chametz kit-and-caboodle to a trusted non-Jew. It's easy and effective, and widely practiced among the Orthodox. (On a technical note: They're not selling the house itself; they're selling all chametz inside, plus access to the house.)
Even Jews who stay home for Passover effect the sale (called the mechirah). They clean house, and store the verboten goods and dishes in sealed-off cabinets, closets, and rooms. No need to flush the 18-year aged whiskey or chuck that very special ice cream cake.
The Passover tourists just sell it all -- no need to clean! -- and off to a catered seder they go.
The practice isn't restricted to individuals. The State of Israel owns a lot of chametz: About $150 million worth when you total up state-owned companies, prison services, and stocks of emergency supplies. Holding onto it during Passover would render it unfit for consumption by the Orthodox. So every year it is sold to Jaaber Hussein, an Arab manager of an Israeli hotel, for a down payment of $4800.
(As it happens, some Muslims have a similar travel tradition. Wealthy Indonesians flock en masse to hotels and resorts during Id al-Fitr, the celebration that closes Ramadan, because it's easier than doing without the domestic servants who go home for the holiday.)
Of course, many non-Orthodox Jewish families don't particularly care about the cleaning regimen; for them, it's more about a family vacation, and hotels offer a convenient, if expensive, solution to hosting and feeding the clan -- especially if part of the clan is Orthodox.
Yonah Krakowsky's family has been traveling the Passover travel circuit from Fort Lauderdale to Niagara Falls since he was twelve, along with a large, rotating cast of cousins and grandparents.
"The holiday is extremely difficult to prepare for, and going away really lightens the load," he said. "And we're together for eight days -- it's quality family time, and means a lot to my grandparents."