Tel Aviv

A new day breaks and the weather is as Scottish as the day before. I’m staying in the “cheap beds” at the Walled Off, i.e. the bunks. There’s six in a room decked out in a military-ish décor, with old Israeli Army bed frames and other paraphernalia. As far as dorms go it’s not cheap ($60) but it’s comfy and it comes with table-serviced breakfast. Having had another serving of hummus and falafel I leave the Walled Off, getting thoroughly drenched before I even arrive at Checkpoint 300.

Entering Israel is pretty quick: there are a few families with at least one member who’s lost their ID card, so I’m waver over by pretty much everyone and end up standing in front of the security booth as the young soldier inside is busy finishing her Candy Crush level. That done I’m through and onto a bus to Jerusalem.

It’s Saturday and, as such, no trains or buses are to be found. I walk uphill towards the corner where the sherut are known to depart and, lo and behold, here they are. We wait a little for it to fill up and then we’re on our way.

I’ve seen a fair bit of the Middle East and I’ve no doubts: Tel Aviv is my favourite city. It’s filthy, disorganised, often plain ugly: yet it’s lively, charming, easygoing and an all-rounder jewel. If the rest of the region is like Walter Sobchak, always yelling and ready to pull out the piece on the lanes, Tel Aviv is the Dude.

The sherut deposits us at the bus station, a locale of fascinating shabbiness. I pick up my bag and walk towards the city centre, a new spring in my step. The sun’s out, the streets aren’t as dead as they are in Jerusalem and there’s an admirable number of Alfa Romeos on the streets.



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My hotel is stuffed at the end of a cul-de-sac in an area too run-down to be called shabby-chic. It feels like Shoreditch a few years ago, with the added benefit of the seaside not far away. As it’s early the room isn’t ready yet, so I dump my backpack in the care of the tattooed receptionist and head out again, sea-bound.


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The roads between the hotel and the waterfront are a mixture of fine art/vintage boutiques (I steer well clear so not to scare the clientele), ice cream parlours (where I dive in) and early XX-century buildings where much of the history for Israel’s statehood played out. A former bomb-making facility is now a museum; the home of Akiva Aryeh Weiss, one of the city’s founders, is now a sushi bar.


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I weave in and out of the waterfront, stopping in bars and shops as I feel like. The weather is blustery and a strong, stiff wind blows the smell of the sea way inland: it’s inebriating. Or maybe it’s the third pint on an empty stomach, I’ll leave it to you to decide.



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The Med looks the least Med-ish I’ve seen in a long while. The surfers are waiting for the big wave that never comes, while kite surfers are having the time of their lives.



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Every now and then a medusa of bad weather, rain trailing in its wake like tentacles, blows over town and we all scatter, returning as soon as it’s moved off.



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Finally, I settle for the evening: there’s a bar with a sideways view of the sea, outside tables and the Supremes on the radio. Oh, there’s even hummus and pitta. This is the life, let me tell you.


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To be continued; feel free to check out my blog Are We There Yet? for more.