Our trip to Israel could not have begun more inauspiciously. HL and I rose at 4 AM in order to fly from Dallas to Atlanta on the first segment of an itinerary that included two widely spaced changes of plane and airline. Our Delta flight was only slightly late when our plane began to gather speed on the runway. Then the pilot slowed and stopped the aircraft just as I was anticipating the initial lift from the ground. The pilot announced that the instruments had detected a mechanical problem. He asked for the passengers’ patience while he conferred with some distant, disembodied authorities. After two hours, the plane returned to the terminal, where everyone had to disembark.
We waited on a lengthy line in order to have an agent reroute us. Instead of going to Paris from Atlanta, we flew to the City of Light in the last two seats on an Airbus out of Minneapolis. The best that can be said of that crossing is that HL and I were together. Foul-tempered functionaries herded us through several security lines in the Paris airport. We boarded our original Air France connecting flight to Tel Aviv with only minutes to spare.
Our elation exceeded our exhaustion when we landed in Israel as planned on Sunday afternoon. My bag, however, had failed to accompany me. Daniela and Ari very generously had come to collect us from the airport, but we had to keep them waiting while my hope of having the bag materialize dimmed. HL and I began the laborious process of filing a baggage retrieval request. The next day would be the seventh day of Passover. As that was a public holiday in Israel, the agent told us, we could not expect much action on my behalf until Tuesday at the earliest.
Despite the loss of my luggage, we had a grand reunion with our admirably patient friends. They brought us to our lodgings, where we deposited HL’s suitcase and our hand luggage, and then to their flat in Florentin.
The next afternoon, somewhat the worse for wear, we joined Daniela and Ari for a walk to Yafo, known to many as Jaffa. They guided us through Fiorentin, a 1930’s workshop district of Tel Aviv that is undergoing gentrification. Artists’ studios, cafes, music venues and vintage apparel stores have opened in former warehouses. Already its graffiti and murals have become tourist attractions to those seeking a glimpse of an emerging Bohemia.
After dining at one of our friends’ favorite Italian restaurants, we proceeded to Yafo, where some stores were open. Muslim shop assistants were at work, as they did not observe the holiday. I was able to acquire a few basic garments to wear until my laggard luggage might rejoin me. Then we went to Yafo Beach to gaze at the Mediterranean Sea, savoring the salt breeze after sunset.
We ended the night in the Romano Center, which once housed garment makers but now is an arcade with record, stamp and coin shops along the sides of an unroofed event space. Moroccan Jews mark the end of Passover with a party called the Maimouna. It has become part of the holiday celebrations for Israeli Jews from all backgrounds. We had happened upon a Maimouna celebration at the Romano Center. A band played Arab and Sephardi songs, and a DJ provided the music when the musicians took a break. The crowd was young, dressed in their motley yet somehow chic garb, singing, swaying, and laughing. I could not think of a better way to be leaving Egypt, hearts high despite the horrors of these times.
The Little Girl in the center of the mural is the work of an artist who uses the name Imaginary Duck. The character appears in various guises throughout Tel Aviv.
HL, Daniela and Ari in the American-German Colony. Some of the Colony's old wooden buildings were brought from The States in the early 20th Century and reassembled in Tel Aviv.
This is a typical alley in the part of Florentin that has yet to be refurbished.
Ari and Daniela near their apartment in Fiorentin, Tel Aviv
This is the studio of sculptor Sophie Jungreis, in the German-American Colony, Tel Aviv
Ari and HL with me at Yafo Beach