June 8, Wednesday

For weeks, I’d been looking forward to dinner with my cousin Bayla, a young woman as wonderfully contradictory as the country she now calls home. An Orthodox engineer, Bayla made alyiah 16 years ago.

Anyway, with one thing and another, our dinner hadn’t happened yet, so when she emailed, “Let’s meet at Serona,” I agreed.

But as Wednesday wore on, I thought better of it. I’d just been there and wanted to try someplace new. When Bayla picked me up, I suggested she think of someplace else—and she did.

We ate at Uno, only a couple of blocks from Serona where we enjoyed a fine dinner on the outside terrace of a typical downtown restaurant that could have been anywhere in the world.

Our conversation ranged from catching up to a brief survey course of Middle East politics. I asked if she was ever afraid. “Only of the ultra orthodox,” she said.

Leaving the restaurant we took no notice of the ambulances. Two? Three? It wasn’t until I got home that I learned about the attack at Serona.

But here’s the surprise. It was the fact that mere hours after 4 Jews were slaughtered ½ mile from where I sat, the police announced the incident was over. The authorities gathered their evidence.  The scene was cleaned up. The tables were re-set. And Serona was back to business as usual. The return to normalcy was stunning in its speed.

Three days later Orlando hit the news. How long will it take to get back to business as usual?

Saturday, June 4

On an ordinary Friday morning rush hour, Joshua Bell arrived at the L’Enfant Plaza subway station in Washington DC. Looking like an everyday busker, he pulled out his Strad, tossed a few seed coins into his violin case, and began to play “Chaconne” from Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D Minor, a piece he describes as, “not just one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, but one of the greatest achievements of any man in history.”

Bell was part of an experiment by The Washington Post to see if, “In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?” It did not.

More than 1500 people hustled by failing to notice as one of the world’s greatest violinists played an hour of virtuoso solos. Barely a handful stopped even for a moment to listen. Bell made $32.00 that day.

I like to think I would have stopped. I like to think I would have been riveted to the spot and you couldn’t have torn me away. And after hearing Bell’s awe-inspiring performance of Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole with the Israel Philharmonic last night, I am amazed by the people who didn’t stop. Well, maybe they don’t breathe either.

Our concert tickets were a gift from our friends—the same wonderful people who’ve been so extraordinarily kind to us this entire trip. There’s really no way to say thank you for such a glorious experience, and that’s what it was. Yes, the concert hall is beautiful. Indeed, the orchestra is superb. And of course, conductor Michael Stern is a treat. But Joshua Bell is a whole body experience.

If you’re interested, here’s the experiment https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnOPu0_YWhw

Sunday, May 30

If I hadn’t needed a baby gift for Ronnie, I wouldn’t have bothered with Serona.

Serona was a colony established by German Templars over 140 years ago. Over the years it fell into disrepair and the site became a blight in the heart of Tel Aviv’s vibrant business district. So in 2006 it was given a second life. Today, it’s a Tel Aviv hot spot.

Thirty-three of the original buildings have been painstakingly restored and now house upscale boutiques, a collection of galleries, cafes, and trendy restaurants and bars. It’s all very European, terribly chic.

But what’s really impressive is the new market building that forms the base of three sky-scrapers that sit like a triple top hat above it. In the market, everything is to eat, or to make what you eat. All food. All gorgeous.

Want a beautiful kosher rib roast? Feel a little sushi-ish? Have a yen for serious cheese? It’s there. It’s edgy. It’s creative. In fact it’s so visually stunning, it’s a shock to the system.

No baby gift here, but wow! It’s worth the schlep to Serona.

Saturday, May 29

Just when I thought there couldn’t possibly be a prettier view, a more incredible meal or a lovelier evening, there was.

Late yesterday afternoon our friends picked us up for a drive north to show us a little more of this amazing country. The scenery is as varied and interesting as the people–with orange groves here and date palms there, little villages and historic towns, and highways that are excellent.

Just north of the city, we passed through the techno-hub of the middle east where Microsoft, Pfizer and dozens of massive high tech buildings line the road creating an Israeli silicon alley.  Herzlya and Natanya  rise in the west with towering seaside condos and lush, leafy neighbourhoods.

Our first stop was at Tamar’s home in a charming neighbourhood on the outskirts of Herzlya. Tamar is our friends’ daughter—as lovely and warm as her parents. Tamar’s husband is a pleasure and her daughters are wonderful too. Her coffee also happens to be delicious, so we spent a pleasant hour on the terrace enjoying the coffee, the company, and the wonderful view of a broad valley below.

And then we set out for dinner at a restaurant called Gouje and Danielle—in a setting so beautiful it makes you want to stop and take pictures, even if you’re embarrassing yourself. Skilfully understated and surprisingly chic, the restaurant itself is unpretentious and, at the same time, simply extravagant. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t exist in North American–maybe because we try too hard to look like we’re not trying.

I don’t have enough superlatives to describe the evening. Suffice to say that from our table on the veranda the view was breath-taking, overlooking the gardens past the furrowed valley to the orchards beyond and further still, on the distant slopes, rose the glittering lights of the West Bank hills.

And, of course, the meal. I had a garlic gnocchi that knocked me out and chicken livers with burned onions and raisins spiced with something fantastic I ought to recognize from my tour in the Carmel market, but Orly never got around to it. Whatever everyone else had, who cares? And the desserts? Drop dead delicious.

If you haven’t been to Gouje and Danielle, rent a car. Take a taxi. Hire a donkey. You’ll love it.

And if you happen to have friends like ours, well you couldn’t, because there can’t be another two people as special as these two are.

Tuesday, May 24

I’m a pretty good cook, but I know nothing about middle-eastern cooking—except that I love it. The flavors, the aromas, the unidentifiable blend of herbs and spices and aromatics. What could be better than a guided tour through the Carmel market?

Orly Ziv’s website called to me. It said: Come hungry. I signed up, eager to be introduced to the otherness of it all.

I met Orly at the designated corner where we waited for the other 3 who would join us. They’d come from far away—Bathurst and Sheppard. And though they couldn’t walk, they sure could eat. Deliberately. Voraciously. Slowly.

We began our tour in the Yemenite sector where Orly took us to a bakery that was little more than an oven in a small cave, and taught us about the varieties of pita and how to recognize a good one. We tasted them all and while I was ready to roll, Molly was still chewing.

We finally moved from there to a kosher Armenian coffee shop where we had a wonderful breakfast of who-knows-what? There were several plates, I recall, but Harry had lost his camera lens and finding it was our focus (no pun intended). We waited as he and Orly scoured the alleyways.

Eventually, we followed the cats and found our way to the spices in the market. Piles of spices and bottles and boxes of stuff I’d come to learn about. We had a lesson. This was a mixture and that was a blend and the other was very strong, so use it carefully. I bought three in different colors because if I don’t know what they are, at least they should be pretty.

By the time we schlepped to the ATM (Harry had forgotten his shekels for Orly) I’d had it—though what it was, I still wasn’t sure.

Mind you, Orly did show me where I could find prepared food. Kol b’seder.

Monday, May 23

Why is today different from all other days?

Today we went to Jerusalem. We took a bus and then a light rail that dropped us off near the Jaffa gate.  Very smart. You see, we’re not tourists any more. We’ve lived in Jerusalem, albeit briefly, and we know the city well. We’ve seen and done just about everything  we wanted to see and do many times. So this time, we simply went there to breathe.

We grabbed a little lunch and were about to make our way to The Western Wall when a slight difference of opinion became clear. A and I had different routes in mind. I like to walk through the suq because it’s fun and it’s quick. He doesn’t.

In fact, he wouldn’t hear of it, listing the terrors within those shady alleys and a dozen different ways I could expect to meet my demise. I laughed. I cajoled. I whined. “What about the jewelry?” There were a thousand rings I’d left behind!

“No”, he said, taking me firmly by the hand. “We’ll go my way.” And we did–through an endless, stone corridor that circles the old city for defence, I suppose, and scairdy cats.

I’d worn a long skirt and a perfectly modest t shirt, but as we approached The Wall, I was accosted by a woman shoving a shawl at me. She pointed to my shameless clavicles shaking her head in dismay and expressed what I know was total distain even though I didn’t understand a word. Is this what The Women of The Wall have been fighting for?

I thought not and declined the damned shawl.

So A went to his section, where there were rotating bar mitzvahs with singing and clapping and the tossing of sweets and I went to my side where there were women on chairs peeking over the wall to watch the singing and clapping and tossing of sweets.  Still, The Wall never fails to move me.

We took the long corridor back to the Jaffa gate which is across from the splashy Manila Mall–our next stop. And I decided I was going into the suq. I needed to go into the suq. I was determined to go into the suq.

I glued A to a two thousand year old piece of sidewalk and promised not to go farther than he could see me. Reluctantly, and reciting the risks directly from our insurance policy, he sat down.

How many shops can you visit in twenty feet? Surprisingly, a bunch.

Omar quoted 150 shekels for the ring, but I’m an experienced bargainer and I held firm. Fifty shekels (about$15 CAD) was my limit.  It couldn’t be done, of course. It was out of the question. Omar would make less than nothing on the sale. Maybe 100? He couldn’t possibly sell such a special ring for less than 100. Out of the question.

I left with the ring.

That evening, it rained in Tel Aviv. Now that’s different!

Friday, May 20

If there’s one thing I’ve learned following A around the world as he speaks to the learned and learners about truth and justice it’s this: wear good shoes.

I thought I packed wisely, choosing only perfect walking shoes. I pared down the usual pairs and settled on 4–all black, or shades thereof. At my friend Marsha’s suggestion, I brought my Wolky’s–guaranteed to be the best walking sandals in the world. They walk very well indeed, but they blister even better. That, they don’t advertise.

Next, I brought my Eccos–a pair of carefully crafted sandals that hug my feet like a mother. It’s possible my feet have gained a little weight on this trip but even if they haven’t, my Eccos have turned filicidal.

Of course, I packed my Campers for dress-up. Mind you, nobody dresses very up here, but when I take them out of my suitcase I’m sure they’ll be a hit.

Thank heavens for running shoes. At least I can walk in them!

Thursday, May 19

It was a perfect day for touring–not too hot, not too cold, right in the Goldilocks zone–so I decided to visit the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. But since it was too far to walk, I thought I’d stop at an ATM on the way and get some shekels for a taxi.

Unfortunately, not a single ATM liked my debit card and I tried dozens, twisting my card this way and that, turning it upside down, starting over in Chinese. Nothing worked, so I walked the entire distance thankful I’d chosen my stunning Ugg running shoes and chic ankle socks as the ideal complement to my outfit.

By the time I arrived at the museum I had only two hours because we’d made plans to meet friends and two of A’s colleagues at the Jaffa port for dinner. So I would rush, I thought. But I couldn’t rush. Nobody could!

The Tel Aviv Art Museum is more than a gallery; it’s an experience. And the experience begins with the building, an awesome piece of architecture that soars above the concrete straight up to the sun. The building is a massive contradiction–of shapes and surfaces, light and shadows, old and new. Dramatic curves butt up against severe angles. Light and line pull you deeper inside. And inside is a collection–make that collections–that delight. A Texas sized Lichtenstein hangs over the entrance of a foyer the size of a football field. A monster Agam points the way to the collections.

Inside there are the Masters, of course, Picasso and Monet and Leger and Pissarro and…videos that amuse, sculptures that excite, weird and wonderful gizmos, and paintings to keep me engrossed for a month. But I only had two hours!

I promised myself I’d return and found a bank across the street that liked my card. I hailed a cab. And I dressed for dinner.

Well, Benny Hadayag at the Tel Aviv port has been my all-time favorite restaurant for years, but The Old Man and The Sea Restaurant in Jaffa can give ol’ Benny lessons. I lost count of the salads, each of which was worth at least a paragraph. The pita was drenched with some heavenly seasoning I have got to smuggle home. And the fish!  Freshly caught and almost flapping on the plate. Oh my, what fish!

The company? Perfect. Right in the Goldilocks zone.

Tuesday, May 16

My friend David always said it’s more dangerous crossing Bathurst and Eglinton than living in Israel, but Tel Aviv is a mass of contradictions and serious risks. There are beaches without lifeguards and sun without shade.  There are miles of bike paths used by cars while on the sidewalks pedestrians dodge bikes and scooters speeding at them from all directions. The pavement is rough and wherever you walk, there’s a real possibility of tripping over cats.

Food sits in the sun for hours and babies play without hats. Two little boys, tzit tzit flying and side curls bobbing, play on the beach while their mother sunbathes in a two-piece suit–no doubt without sun block.

As the king of Siam said, “It’s a puzzlement!”

But the craft sale at Nachlat Benyamin is typical of craft sales everywhere. And there, I met my friend E for an afternoon strolling and admiring as we wandered through the narrow lanes. Lovely things at every table. Beautiful platters and cups carved in olive wood. Bracelets and earrings and rings, oh my! Pottery and hand-made knick-knacks of every kind–all with an Israeli accent.

Expensive? You bet! But the vendors take VISA. Very dangerous indeed. 

Monday, May 15

Today we toured Jaffa. We met our guide Eric at the famous clock tower which was unfortunately obscured by drapes. Apparently, renovations began last year and were expected to take 2 months, but Eric’s never seen anyone working on the clock and has no idea when it will be completed. Perhaps the hour is insignificant. After all, this is a country where time is measured in millennia. And we were about to revisit those years recorded in the steps and stones of the walled town of Jaffa.

Jaffa is one of the oldest inhabited places in the world. High above the sea and dunes below, with a breathtaking view of what is now Tel Aviv, it was an easily defended city above a natural Harbor–the perfect entry to the middle east. Over the centuries, some of the biggest empires in history have conquered and ruled. It’s a story-book place packed with legends and drama. And today, it is a symbol of Jewish-Arab coexistence and a centre for artists, intellectuals and tourist restaurants.

We walked the most beautiful streets and squares of Old Jaffa, saw the house of Simon the Tanner, looked at Adolph Eichmann’s prison, stood where Napoleon massacred the population he conquered, and wandered the Zodiac alleyways.

It was so hot the polish on my nails blistered. We kept drinking and we kept up, pleased that we’d managed the murderous steps and the scorching heat, and avoided the need for an ambulance.

Now, A has been trying to pay a parking ticket for days and the acrobatics have been insane. The first time he tried, he discovered he needed a number to stand in line, but he didn’t have time to wait. The second time, he learned he needed identification to get a number to stand in line. The third time, he took his I.D. along only to find the bank closed at 1 in the afternoon. Maybe it was a Yom Mid-Day holiday we hadn’t heard about. It was making him crazy–the issue of a passport,  the currency, the limited hours, and the sitting with a number to wait your turn–all to pay a parking ticket. He decided he wasn’t leaving Jaffa until he got the job done.

The bank was air conditioned. There were chairs for waiting. A showed his credentials and signed for his number. He waited his turn. The fine was paid. Kol b’seder.

We finished off with a delicious and overpriced lunch of salads and felafel. The taxi home cost double the tab of getting there. They may be slow at construction, but they’re quick to work out the angles!

Sunday, May 14

I’m sitting on the beach with a cappuccino gadol (and that’s about the extent of my vocabulary). This is the first day of the week and the madness of Shabbat has evaporated. The hordes have gone back to work.

It’s hot. Yesterday it was 95 and today it’s going to be 98 according to my server Arielle, a beautiful young woman from Montreal who has completed 3 years in the army and hopes to enter McGill in the fall.

A is at home preparing for his first class this afternoon. His lectures will be longer than he is accustomed to and he worries about standing in front of a room of people and talking non-stop for three and a half hours. I tell him I do it all the time, but he is not amused.

Tel Aviv is so very different from Jerusalem it’s hard to get my arms around it. While Jerusalem is a living museum, here history crashes into the future creating a unique and impressive hybrid. The Sandeman brochure explains it: “To the north of Jaffa lay nothing but sand dunes and the trails of camels carrying the city’s famous oranges to distant markets. Out of those sand dunes would rise the skyscrapers of a new city: the most liberal, the most technologically advanced, most socially progressive, most democratic city of the entire Middle East.”

I am especially struck by the young men and women, all of whom are well-muscled, slender and fit–thanks, no doubt, to the army. Obesity is as uncommon as pork.

There are as many health food stores as kosher butchers. There are more electronics stores than Judaica shops. Windows display immodest outfits, tiny bikinis, glitzy jewelry and blinged-out dresses. There are tattoo parlours. Women favor what I can only describe as hooker shoes.

I hear Hebrew of course, a good dollop of English, a smattering of Italian and Spanish–and a lot of Russian. What seems new and particularly striking is the French I hear all around me. Young families, elderly couples, kids on the beach, speaking French. An influx of French Jews is transforming the local brew.

It’s nearly 7 and I’m waiting to hear from A. I’ve been to the market and scoured the groceries in search of fresh fish for dinner. We’re a block from the sea and no fish to be found. And it’s hot. At 103 degrees, the thermometer has surpassed even Arielle’s predictions.

A calls me after class. “It was great!” he reports.

I am not surprised.

Friday, Erev Shabbat, May 11

I like my apartment, but I don’t like my kitchen. It consists of a tiny counter, a small stove and fridge, and a few plates and cups. There is a little microwave, but no provisions and no dishwasher, so I am not eager to stock the shelves and cook. In an effort to make it easy on myself, I walked miles in search of prepared food. Mind you, all I wanted was a bar-b-que chicken. Even a dry one!

I set out for the Dizengoff Center where, I’d been told, I’d find exactly what I wanted at the grocery store. But my sources were wrong. So from there I walked the length of Dizengoff. But if you know me, you’ll immediately realize I walked the wrong way. Of course, I didn’t immediately realize it, but when I hit King George Street, the shekel dropped.

Retracing my steps, I found my way home and managed to convince A to accompany me to the Carmel market.  Now, everyone knows a suq is insane. But a Jewish suq Erev Shabbat is insanity on speed. Within minutes of entering the crush, A took his leave explaining he had work to do.

I looked at the table cloths. I explored the spices. I examined the olives, the tomatoes, the chalas. Not a chicken clucked. Not a brisket beckoned. I brought home some tasty baklava.

Thursday, May 12, Yom Ha’atzmaut

Today, I went to the beach early to get seats and A met me at noon to watch the air show. Sail boats drifted at anchor and the seaside was jammed with humanity. Not a spare chair or patch of sand.

The crowd hooted and applauded in appreciation as the planes performed hair-raising acrobatics and a parade of formations flew overhead. Helicopters, jets, Hercules transports, prop planes. A button-popping show of air power.

Later, we drove to our friends’ to accompany them once again for an extraordinary evening, this time among their high-school classmates. We drove to the outskirts of town through leafy, winding streets, and arrived at a fabulous home designed by a famous Israeli architect with an eye for beauty and a flair for graceful space.

If last night was warm and homey, tonight was warm and homey and posh. Our host, a former pilot and commander, welcomed us and from there, it was a mind-blowing buffet of eats and treats and stories.

This must have been a class of super-achievers I thought, although our friends assured us it was merely typical.  And among the judges and scientists and engineers (each of whom, it seems, has contributed something of consequence to the history books) we met a former Ambassador to Canada–a charming man who was happy to tell me that his years in Ottawa were the most enjoyable of his career. “Canada is the jewel in the crown,” he said.  “And you can quote me on that.” So I am.

We met a man who’d been shot down during the war of ’67 and was held prisoner in Egypt for 3 years. We heard about losses and heroism and near misses in that war and others. We talked with a scientist who turned his talents to business and became a worldwide exporter of Israeli wines. A talked politics with politicians. And I tried to smile intelligently.

What an evening! And an addendum.

I’ve been having a terrible time with my computer which seems to have a major meltdown whenever I’m far away. In any case, after our wonderful evening I was still hyped so I went to the corner convenience store to get a cold drink. I asked the young man at the counter if he knew someone nearby who was good at fixing computers. He asked what was wrong and I told him it was a wreck.

“Well”, he said, “as long as you’ve got your health.”

Only in Israel!

Wednesday, May 11, Erev Yom Ha’atzmaut

I’ve walked at least 5 miles every day trying to gobble it all up. I know this because my trusty fitbit has dutifully recorded my steps.

But today I stopped early because this is Erev Yom Ha’atzmaut, the eve of Independence Day. At home we have Canada Day, of course. But nobody seems to know for certain when it is or even what it is.  It’s possible many Canadians are not even sure if we have independence. Still, a few beers and some fireworks usually do the trick. We’re Canadians after all and we accept our land and our rights as an entitlement.

It’s different here. At 11 o’clock an alarm sounded and the country stopped to stand. They stood on the beaches, in the parks and on the highways they emerged from their cars to stand–in unison, in tribute, and in memory of the fallen.

We are picked up at 8 by dear friends who have taken us under their wing to show us the real Israel. They drive us to the home of an old friend of theirs where they and about 50 others gather every year to celebrate and remember together. They’ve been friends since their days in the army or even before. Edna is our host and her welcome is warm and enthusiastic.

The company is extraordinary. This one is chief of gynecology and oncology at Hadassa Hospital (and the proud mother of a son who just won the top navy seal award, she informs us). That one is a famous lawyer. Others are judges of every rank including two past chief justices of the supreme court. Names in history books.

Before dinner, a few of the guests crowd into a little den to watch a televised ceremony on Mount Hertzl. They applaud, they reminisce, they dab at stray tears. Others discuss.

The table is laden with mounds of salads and savories, and each dish is unbelievably delicious. Edna has made them all. Desserts are a variety of cakes and sweets contributed by guests.  After dinner, everyone sings old army songs to the accompaniment of a bouncing disc jockey who projects the lyrics on the wall.

In the faces of these aging men and women, I see the resolve and the spirit of young soldiers. I am moved beyond words.

Saturday, May 7

We’re finally here. We arrived yesterday and Tel Aviv is exactly as I remember it, only more so. More noise. More people. More cats. More babies. More baby cats. It’s incredible.

Our apartment is excellent. Sunny and spacious, it’s perfectly located. If I hang by my knees from the balcony and look west I can see the sea through the sea of cranes at the corner. It’s only a block to the beach where I plan to become a regular for my morning cappuccino at the first café on the tayalit. 14 shekels (about $4.50) gets me a rich cup of coffee and a chair under an umbrella on a magnificent stretch of sand. With wifi.
In Florida, planes fly along the coast scanning the water for sharks. Here, they search for sharks with guns. Otherwise, it could be anywhere–except for the joyful folk dancing. Everyone knows the intricate steps to a hundred different songs and it could only happen on this beach on Shabbat–in Tel Aviv.