"You have to give them attitude, if you want their respect," my mom tells me. So, when I'm in Israel, I'm insulting Israelis left and right. First you have to break them, then smile sweetly, and then break them again. And I don't make that many friends, but I command respect and get a black eye.
In Jerusalem, I reunite with long-lost cousins, Shalva and Simon and Michael and Jeremy and Batya (who likes Twilight, and loves Edward and Abercrombie and Fitch). It's all a mind-twirl. And late nights in Jerusalem, with soccer being projected onto white screens, and purple swirls of hookah smoke. In Israel, you can drink in the streets, so you purchase the big bottles of Goldstar and sit on a high cement ledge, and let your legs dangle like a schoolgirl. And there's the skateboarder who I keep seeing, who's always red-eyed and dazed, and he keeps falling off his board and scuffing his knees.
And after Jerusalem, there's Motti, who shows me around Tel Aviv, the nooks and crannies of this urban sprawl, with lots of Ping Pong on the beach and speedos and techno. Motti shows me the ins and outs, the ropes. This small kitchenette, misplaced between fruit vendors and a guy who sells Levi's knock-offs, is packed. Minced meats with cilantro and garlic sizzling on the fry, as pasta's tossed. This is the street food in Tel Aviv, hummus whipped like butter and doused in syrupy olive oil. It's this thick smell of sweat and fry... and yes, malt beverages. The next day, Motti takes me to Jaffa, where I pause for the next few days.
When we first get to Jaffa, it's hot, but the Mediterranean Sea is turquoise and cool. "I'm going to take you for the best food," Motti says and he parks on a steep hill. Outside is dingy and inside is dingier with white walls and long picnic tables and, mostly, Arabic men speaking loud and soaking warmed pita into bowls of garbanzo and strange bean and oil, ornamented with chili flakes. Is it Egyptian? I think that's what he tells me. And it's thick and sour and warm and, for the rest of the day, I'm stuffed.
Jaffa is brown ruins and blue sea and one tall clock tower. And every so often, throughout the day, one mosque starts to sing through the megaphone speakers and another mosque, two blocks away, competes... and then a third... and a fourth. And it's rivaling mosques with booming speakers and the city rattles. And where do these mosques get their sound equipment? Best Buy?
I stay in a Moorish-type youth hostel, in my private room with private bath (how decadent). It's yellow and green, looking down through a cathedral-type window, onto the broken down street. It's beautiful; black-cobble stone charm, rough and tough, with flea market hustlers and strings of dirty rainbow-colored light-bulbs, twisting around the lamp-posts. There's a skyline of the Tel Aviv metropolis. It comforts me in some sick way. There are the ruins of this ancient sea-port town, peeling pink buildings, Israelis arguing, and hostelers bonding (random, jigsaw people with no coordination and jagged edges), and the skyline. On the roof of this hostel, it's very Moroccan and red and yellow and blue; there are mattresses to lie and chairs to sit... and a communal kitchen and constant music. Sitting on the roof-top, on the edge, looking down at the twinkling lights of late-night dives. The mosques are singing, cars are honking, a radio is humming, a plane is roaring, and a bell is chiming. The end.
In Jerusalem, I reunite with long-lost cousins, Shalva and Simon and Michael and Jeremy and Batya (who likes Twilight, and loves Edward and Abercrombie and Fitch). It's all a mind-twirl. And late nights in Jerusalem, with soccer being projected onto white screens, and purple swirls of hookah smoke. In Israel, you can drink in the streets, so you purchase the big bottles of Goldstar and sit on a high cement ledge, and let your legs dangle like a schoolgirl. And there's the skateboarder who I keep seeing, who's always red-eyed and dazed, and he keeps falling off his board and scuffing his knees.
And after Jerusalem, there's Motti, who shows me around Tel Aviv, the nooks and crannies of this urban sprawl, with lots of Ping Pong on the beach and speedos and techno. Motti shows me the ins and outs, the ropes. This small kitchenette, misplaced between fruit vendors and a guy who sells Levi's knock-offs, is packed. Minced meats with cilantro and garlic sizzling on the fry, as pasta's tossed. This is the street food in Tel Aviv, hummus whipped like butter and doused in syrupy olive oil. It's this thick smell of sweat and fry... and yes, malt beverages. The next day, Motti takes me to Jaffa, where I pause for the next few days.
When we first get to Jaffa, it's hot, but the Mediterranean Sea is turquoise and cool. "I'm going to take you for the best food," Motti says and he parks on a steep hill. Outside is dingy and inside is dingier with white walls and long picnic tables and, mostly, Arabic men speaking loud and soaking warmed pita into bowls of garbanzo and strange bean and oil, ornamented with chili flakes. Is it Egyptian? I think that's what he tells me. And it's thick and sour and warm and, for the rest of the day, I'm stuffed.
Jaffa is brown ruins and blue sea and one tall clock tower. And every so often, throughout the day, one mosque starts to sing through the megaphone speakers and another mosque, two blocks away, competes... and then a third... and a fourth. And it's rivaling mosques with booming speakers and the city rattles. And where do these mosques get their sound equipment? Best Buy?
I stay in a Moorish-type youth hostel, in my private room with private bath (how decadent). It's yellow and green, looking down through a cathedral-type window, onto the broken down street. It's beautiful; black-cobble stone charm, rough and tough, with flea market hustlers and strings of dirty rainbow-colored light-bulbs, twisting around the lamp-posts. There's a skyline of the Tel Aviv metropolis. It comforts me in some sick way. There are the ruins of this ancient sea-port town, peeling pink buildings, Israelis arguing, and hostelers bonding (random, jigsaw people with no coordination and jagged edges), and the skyline. On the roof of this hostel, it's very Moroccan and red and yellow and blue; there are mattresses to lie and chairs to sit... and a communal kitchen and constant music. Sitting on the roof-top, on the edge, looking down at the twinkling lights of late-night dives. The mosques are singing, cars are honking, a radio is humming, a plane is roaring, and a bell is chiming. The end.
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