Raw fish, marinated in ginger and citrus, with flowers and leaves on top.
Could be anywhere right, in this world of ours. Only yesterday in Tel Aviv I
passed a Mexican restaurant beside a Japanese one. But then we add to the
picture a professional and huffy waiter and you’ll not need a photo of the
Eiffel Tower to know that we stopped on the way here for a walk along the Seine
and lunch. We’ll always have Paris.
There’s much that gets lost in translation. The wine list recommended a St
Estephe, from what the French version said was the north of the Bordeaux
region. In the English version the vineyard moved to the north of Burgundy.
Later, in Israel, the “loyalty champion “ of our hotel wrote that we are in an
“idealist” location for jogging. It’s not clear to me whether epistemological
idealism or ontological idealism is meant.
After lunch we sat down beside the Seine in front of Trocadero and imagined—
well I did— Hitler and his chums standing on the balcony opposite, looking with
some surprise at the city he had just conquered. I wonder if he stretched his
arm extra high when he saluted the Eiffel Tower or lowered it a little,
competitively. I tried chatting with ducks, but found they had little to say
beyond, “bouffe, beuf, beuf, beuf,” which in my head means, “stuff yourself,
beef ( repeated).” Possibly this kind of conversation was a source for that
very French invention Theater of the Absurd? I wanted to ask Mimo, but she was
either lagging or lacking.
Our plane to Israel was late. We arrived in Tel Aviv at four in the morning,
which is not a good time to arrive anywhere except maybe Alice Springs or
somewhere in the Kalahari. At Ben Gurion airport the eye- scanning device spits
out a piece of paper reminiscent of the kind of ticket you get when you’ve paid
in an airport parking garage. For no clear reason I elected to keep it, which
was good because they asked for it at the hotel check in. They said this was
“for taxes.” At that five in the morning they could have said it was for
chicken. I’d have nodded.
Backing up a bit here to add to the sense of disorientation and because cutting
and pasting on my phone is a pain. French I can generally manage, with the
exception of menus; restaurants were not part of my college year- abroad
budget. Well “steak frites avec un coup du rouge“ sometimes. When I returned
for research on the First World War, in Cassel, a hill town that had been
fought over by Romans, Marlborough’s army, soldiers of both World Wars, I
ordered what the menu described as ”le hamburger,” thinking this might not
involve tripe or other bridge too far. It came raw. The waiter explained that
if I had wanted it cooked I should have ordered “un hamburger American.” No,
of course he couldn’t take it back; the fault was mine. Always is in France;
that the customer is always wrong is the rule of restaurants. I think it is the
only rule French people always adhere to. One might wish it were not so, but
that would involve climbing the hill of the subjunctive.
First day in Tel Aviv, restaurant trouble too. The menu said “schnitzel.” L
ordered hummus and falafel; I went for what I fancied—schnitzel. I mean there
were lots of Jews in Vienna once; people should be able to recall the dish.
The waitress brought chicken nuggets, with meat possibly made by a cunning new
lab process, involving root vegetables. Dipped in hummus and a little ketchup,
some supplemented the fries.
Irritants are the norm with travel. A guy at lunch couldn’t stop puffing on his
vape and taking brief phone calls. He was very wound up. We guessed some kind
of dealing was happening. We put the hotel towels on the floor to indicate
that we’d spilled something and would like new ones. When we returned to the
room, one had been hung back on the rack. But welcome surprises also occur. We
were upgraded to a room on the thirteenth floor, with a partial ocean view,
which is a view I’m partial to. We wandered into a shop that sold wine and
books and met two nice ladies. Came away with a charming Greek white. I want to
give the ladies’ publishing enterprise a push: Nine Lives, Tel Aviv. Check them
out.
A brain that has travelled through lots of clouds picks up a residue from them
and, instead of coherent thought, serves up details like these. I wanted to ask
Mimo whether the passage from life into an afterlife is in any way similar, but
some questions are unanswerable. Especially in the absence of chicken.
I watched a little Israeli television. Some show with actors from “Fauda,” and
lots of eye waggling. I’m guessing everyone read Michael Caine on movie acting—
keep the eyes active. On HOT ( a channel or purveyor) was a British show,
“Cheaters,” which updates the bedroom farce— closed doors, things bundled into
cupboards, tell-tale glasses of wine. The polka-dotted boxer shorts of my
youthful experience of London theatre, or trousers round the ankles, are
replaced by more explicit indications: heavy breathing, flashes of nudity.
Assumptions also, concerning for example who is chasing whom and why. Humor
moves on. My favorite line, delivered by a woman who is so worldly she writes
for Rough Guide: do I need to hear opinions from a man who had a job once?
Quite the put down.
You are getting this early so I can close with a cliff- hanger: Sunday will be
spent with someone I’ve never met, who reads Hereabouts. Will she turn out to
know which school of Idealists Tel Aviv joggers belong to? Will she say
something I can repeat without an invasion of privacy? Will she put me back in
touch with Mimo? Time and possibly I will tell, probably after the wedding
next week.
Not my wedding by the way. (L. and I are approaching our fortieth anniversary)
I mean the wedding that drew us to Israel.
There will be hummus. Possibly humor too.
David Ritchie,
Tel Aviv------------------------------------------------------------------
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