On a recent trip to New York I had the privilege of taking a guided walking tour of the Hasidic community in Williamsburg. Having read the book Unorthodox, by Deborah Feldman, I was fascinated by her account of life in this insular, Satmar community, the personal toll she experienced, and the impetus that finally made her leave.

The traditions and carefully proscribed rituals of daily life Feldman describes can seem comforting somehow to an outsider, and others downright invasive and strange to an outsider. The day-to-day and month-to-month grind of prayer, mikveh visits, endless housework and childcare, and the constant striving to be a complacent, conforming, and a pious Jew was exhausting to read, much less practice.

Our small tour group met Yoelish, our guide, in front of a small shop in the district. Dressed in slacks and a tweedy blazer and wearing short hair and a light beard, he looked like any man in his 30s that you’d encounter walking in any neighborhood. He donned his yarmulke before leading us to the neighborhood square, where he asked the four tourists to introduce themselves and tell why we were there.

Our time with him was scheduled for 90 minutes, but extended over four hours. Yoelish was a talker, and we were enthralled. We walked, listening carefully, as he told us his story. Just three years ago he left the community, his wife, children, parents, and 12 siblings for a life beyond the confines of Hasidic life. He spoke with fondness and respect of his family and friends, as well as his former culture, yet also relayed some of the challenges.

For example, being raised speaking primarily Yiddish as a boy, although his mother, who speaks excellent English, passed some of it on to her children; and the limited educational opportunities provided boys, who are schooled in the Jewish traditions but little else (hence, many financially successful Hasidic men are self- and community-made businessmen). I was surprised to learn that girls have more formal educational preparation–through high school–although in religious schools that carefully censor all books (inking out words such as TV, radio, Internet, love, kiss, and many others). The Web is out of the question for schools and homes, yet smart phones are acceptable—provided the appropriate filters have been installed by the local Hasidic Internet-monitoring company.

One wig-bedecked, matronly woman in the bakery, curious, asked where we were from and why we were there. Joelish engaged her in conversation, and she wished us a good trip. Two other ladies , best friends for many years, we learned, stopped us in front of an apartment to chat. They asked if we were Jewish, why we were there, and then told how “this life” was good to them, giving them children who made them proud. One noted she had eight children and all were rabbis and teachers. An impish five-year-old girl, her granddaughter, held her hand and shyly looked up at us.

Her closest friend said, “You should meet my father, he is a very interesting man.” A few minutes, the 91-year-old scholar came out to meet us. Speaking Yiddish, he talked with Yoelish at length, saying that he transcribed the scriptures 27 times in his lifetime, and speaks six languages—none of them English. His daughter proudly informed us that a book has also been written about him and his many accomplishments after surviving the holocaust.

Young women walked briskly all around us, pushing baby strollers and leading their children—three, four, and sometimes five of them—even with the youngest of mothers. Short bobbed wigs were the standard; having read Unorthodox, I knew their heads were shaven underneath. Heavy, seamed, flesh-colored stockings, flat shoes, and 50s-style hats were the norm. I saw only one fashionable young girl who wore light pink lipstick; otherwise, faces were well scrubbed. Two men the age of Joelish spoke briefly with us. They were being trained to work with and educate disabled children, and also were looking for business opportunities. According to Yoelish, they could not understand why we would be interested in them or their community. As Yoelish so bluntly stated earlier in the tour, “To them, anyone outside their community doesn’t exist.”

Later, as we sampled six delicious kugels in the deli, Yoelish told us in detail about the matchmaking process, the nerve-racking and extensive screening that occurs, and the focus and joy the culture places on having children. I looked around at the men and women enjoying their food, and coming and going, and felt their sense of purpose. I was surprised to realize I felt slightly envious.

Back at the hotel my husband and I relaxed in our room and discussed the afternoon. We were just a few miles away from Williamsburg, yet worlds away. Although our visit scratched only the surface of Hasidic life and the reading I’ve done had deepened my knowledge, my true understanding of the life for those living it remains limited. I still have so many questions. Was there an event that catapulted Yoelish out of the community, or did he exit based on a slowly developing curiosity or seething process of anger and frustration?

What would it be like to live your life without free access to books, the news, the Internet, other types of people, and diverse ideas? Why did the women we spoke with seem compelled to give us a good impression, telling us how happy their life is, and how blessed they are? Do people in the community experience loneliness even though they’re constantly surrounded by others? Do most who practice this form of Judaism, working so hard to conform and follow the rules, do so happily, or is it a daily struggle?

As informative and enjoyable as Yoelish’s tour was, it left me with more questions than answers. As he said in his “You’re welcome” email to me later, “Keep on learning!”