I awoke on Wednesday to more messages about my peripatetic luggage, including a promise of delivery sometime before that night. It was not until about 2:45 PM that I received my bag. My new duffel bag’s maiden voyage had indeed been a bizarre one. At one point, it seems, the bag had been as far as Paris if not Tel Aviv. Then it had been sent back to Dallas, and subsequently to Tel Aviv again, via our original tripartite route.
Though I was relieved to regain possession of my luggage, I could not help reflecting on the series of errors that had kept it from me for days. Airlines in several countries had contributed to the abysmally poor handling of a routine task. That, alas, is not the kind of international cooperation that we applaud.
HL and I needed a few supplies, so we walked to a neighborhood market near the Tel Aviv home of Israel’s first prime minister, David Ben Gurion. In front of the house were statues of Paula and David Ben Gurion by the sculptor Shira Zelwer. Unlike heroic bronzes on tall pedestals, the Ben Gurion‘s stand at street level, in realistic postures. They were cast in bronze and covered in granolith, a finely ground granite applied as a paste that can be painted when it dries.
The couple might be anyone’s grandparents, unglamorous, familiar, and much loved. Enhancing the illusion of the accessibility of her subjects were some pigeons that Zelwer placed near the couple’s feet. I was not the only one who has confused the birds with their living models.
HL and I braved the bus system on our way to meet Daniela and Ari for dinner. D. had provided us with a prepaid transit card and meticulous directions. And our waiting a few minutes at a bus stop at the beach could not be accounted a hardship.
We rode with students, parents with babies in strollers, pensioners, and people who did not fit into any easily determined category. One such passenger was dressed like an Orthodox Jewish woman, with long sleeves, a skirt and covered hair. The person’s lipstick was incongruously bright, and the eyeliner applied so thickly and inexpertly that I wondered if there had been any light in the room where it had been done.
I was intrigued and amused by much that I discovered in Tel Aviv. Yet the reminders of the 7 October attack, and the ensuing war, were ubiquitous. As I was climbing the stairs to our flat at the end of a pleasant night, I passed a door decorated with a sign. On it, I read: I also was at there, meaning the Nova Music Festival. (Nova took place near the Gazan border, where Hamas abused and slaughtered many youthful festival attendees.)
The statement on the sign may have been literal, as some did survive the carnage. It was also an expression of solidarity with the victims and their families, but it might have included the millions not physically present at the site. Israel’s Jews may not think as one, but I watched them mourn as one. And they cannot stop yet.
The tale of the traveling bag reached a satisfactory conclusion.
This tribute to the memories of David and Paula Ben Gurion includes several pigeons.
As we awaited Bus #4, HL and I gazed at the Mediterranean Sea.
Some of our fellow passengers were more exotic than others.
“I too was there”
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