Month: May 2018

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Flying Easy

To Guernsey and back: the Easy way.

Travelling to Guernsey can involve some complications which I will not go into, but suffice it to say, that after much investigation, it appeared the best way to go was to take a budget airline called, for some incomprehensible reason, “Easy Jet”. I would use Easy Jet to go to Manchester from Tel Aviv, and to come back from Gatwick.

In an effort to make the whole thing bearable, Mike paid for several upgrades such as a seat with leg room, and something called “Easy Boarding” which was meant to ensure that you could take a slightly larger piece of carry-on luggage, and that you could get on the plane ahead of the regular shleppers, so you could find a place to stow it.

My first brush with the Easy experience was the discovery that although Easy Jet does fly out of Ben Gurion, it does not do so from the new Terminal 3, but from the old Terminal 1, a terminal I did not realize existed anymore. (Mike flew into this terminal in 1971!)  As it turns out, you cannot go directly to Terminal 1; you have to go first to Terminal 3, and from there take a bus that runs every 15 minutes, (or so). This  regular city-style bus was crammed, not just with passengers and staff, but with all kinds of luggage that had no business being on a bus, including a large flat-screen TV that ended up being left on the curb. (I hope it was not blown up.)

After what seemed like  a long ride, the old terminal being quite close to the town of Lod, and not very close to anything else, we pulled up,  I went through the usual three-step security process, and settled in for a three-hour wait. This little terminal is a bit of a walk down memory lane back to the times when airline travel was just taking off, so to speak. Picture a modest rectangular version of the old Malton terminal 1 in Toronto, (without the fancy rooftop restaurant, where my father used to take us, and where I distinctly remember eating my first and only Baked Alaska).  Both that airport and Baked Alaska are no longer with us. But Terminal 1 in Tel Aviv is, and it is hoping that charm will offset inconvenience.

The charming part. Ben Gurion with his own street sign. Every Israeli city  has a Ben Gurion street, so why not the waiting area?
More  Ben Gurion. Definitely a theme happening here. Can you imagine something like this for Lester  B. Pearson?

After a few modest delays,  it was finally time for the “Easy Boarding” experience. We lucky ones were duly called up first… so far, so good.  Then, there being no jet-bridges,  we were herded down some stairs to ground level to wait to take a bus to the airplane…but naturally there was no bus. More and more people piled up in the smallish downstairs foyer,  and  then were backed right up the stairs. After about 15 minutes or so of this, a  bus finally pulled up and we all pressed forward, anxious to secure a good spot, but the foyer doors remained locked, and we continued to wait…

Needless to say, at this point Easy and non-Easy Boarders were all standing together, as egalitarian as can be, (as we would be on the bus.)  Not only that, everyone had a ridiculous amount of non-conforming carry-on, whether or not they had paid for it. (It was going to be a free-for-all on the plane.) Now we continued to wait. The crowd, being largely British, and therefore polite, finally began to get restive, muttering: “Easy Boarding…hah!”,  “We paid extra for this?”,  “Easy for whom?”, and a few choice rebranding ideas such as: “Sleazy Jet”, “Queasy Jet”, “Cheesy Jet”, “Uneasy Jet” and so on.  All in a northern British accent, which makes everything sound witty.

No one ever told us why we could not get on the  empty bus that was just sitting out there; Easy Jet philosophy and Israeli bureaucracy being exquisitely aligned to ensure maximum customer frustration.  But finally, after another 10-15 minutes, the doors opened, and there was a rush for the bus. And let me tell you, between the strollers and the kids, and the carry-ons etc., it was a very close “haimishe” experience, during which I got to know my fellow passengers as we bonded over our collective sense of  Easy grievance. So I heard about the wedding in Netanya, the Bar Mitzvah in Tel Aviv, the family visit in Rehovot…you get the idea.  Being from Canada, I was quite the novelty, all the more so because I was going to visit Manchester for a few days…by choice!

Once on board, I found that Easy Jet has adopted one practice that I think is actually quite clever considering their tightly spaced budget seat configuration. They have installed seats with no lean-back function, possibly because they are cheaper and less likely to malfunction.  But the outcome is to avoid the kind of air-rage that is inspired by having your mini dinner tray land up against your chest. This only left overhead bin rage to deal with. After that was all sorted, the 5 hour flight was smooth sailing,  and I was fully prepared for the lack of catering and entertainment, having flown on Rouge.

Finally we landed, and it being well after midnight, the airport was quiet, so we pulled right up to a gate with a jet-bridge. A jet-bridge! I was pleasantly surprised. But alas, the jet-bridge, despite being right there, was not to be used by us Easy customers, this kind of luxury being beyond the Easy budget. So we went down the airplane stairs, onto the tarmac, into the terminal at ground level, back up the interior stairs, and on to customs and immigration. Not so good for young families and the elderly. But I was  finally in Manchester…and Chris was waiting…with food!

Our flight from Manchester to Guernsey  a couple of days later, on a Guernsey airline, was uneventful, and I had a wonderful visit.

Then it was time to come home. The plan was to take the 7:00 a.m. Aurigny flight out of Guernsey to Gatwick’s south terminal, switch to the north terminal, use the trusty “Easy Boarding”  system and fly to Tel Aviv.  But through a series of misadventures, I ended up on the 10:20 flight, which, since it was on Aurigny’s only jet, should normally have left more than enough time to catch my flight from Gatwick at 12:50. That is… if it left on time…which sadly it did not, a not uncommon occurrence on the island, (or on any island for that matter).  An hour late, we took off. When we landed at Gatwick we pulled right up to a gate with a jet-bridge (yes!), and again I allowed myself some hope…which was silly…really.  I should have known better.

Down the plane stairs we went, onto the tarmac, into the terminal, up the jet-bridge stairs, then down the  stairs on the other side of the jet-bridge, out another door, back onto the tarmac and into a bus.  I was baffled.  Why didn’t we just cross under the jet-bridge to get directly into the bus?  And why were we using a bus at all if we were right next to a jet-bridge which leads right into the terminal? Stairs and buses are not the first thing I associate with air travel, but they were certainly a big part of this trip.

Anyway, the bus took us to the baggage area, which must have been round the other side of the terminal, and I headed for the train-link to the North terminal where I dashed up to my special exclusive Easy Boarding security line, 10 minutes before the flight, but 20 minutes after the gate had closed. Just my luck that of all days, this was the one that they had an on-time departure.  And nothing could be done to help. The improperly named Customer “Service” desk confirmed:  there would be no Tel Aviv flights for 48 hours (so sorry), there would be no refunds or flight credits (so sorry again), and… good luck to you!  Easy Peasy.

Thankfully, Chris and Rob had been on-line when I was in the air, and they bailed me out with a  British Airways flight out of Heathrow, which I had three and a half hours to catch. That might have been iffy on a business day, Gatwick to Heathrow being a long busy drive, but on a Sunday afternoon…no problem.  I got there, found the terminal, got my boarding pass, and all was well.

Except for the strike by French air traffic controllers…which required a re-routing over Sweden(!) that was to add two and a half hours to the 5 hour flight, getting me in at around 3:00 a.m….sigh.

But…joy restored…a new route was found just as we boarded, and I made it home at 1:00 in the morning only slightly the worse for wear: one delay, one missed flight, and four airports later.

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Roundabout Guernsey

Roundabout Guernsey:

From this heading, you might think the point of this post is to describe my visit to my sister’s home on Guernsey, the interesting time we had driving around the island, and what happened at the annual literary festival. And that is what I fully intend to do, but first I would like to mention some of the unique driving arrangements on the island of Guernsey, among which  is the invisible “roundabout”.

Usually roundabouts are round, (hence the name), with a raised island in the middle which make them pretty easy to spot. However in Guernsey there are a number of “roundabouts”  that are not round at all. They are typical four-way intersections;  it looks like you just go straight through, or make a normal 90 degree turn, and to all intents and purposes, you do.  But here’s the catch. You must follow “roundabout” driving rules. Normally that would mean you give priority to traffic already in the roundabout circle, which in the UK always comes from the right.  But in these cases, because there is no circle to enter, you end up giving priority to all the traffic coming in from the roadway to the right of you. Depending on the time of day, and where you are going, this can take quite awhile, and there is definitely a bit of “edging out and making a run for it” that occurs.

The problem is, that it is not obvious how a visitor would know that these ordinary looking intersections behave like roundabouts, and even my sister had trouble trying to identify a marker. Like most Guernsey drivers she just “knows”. However she took it up with her friends, and after some debate they concluded that there is supposed to be a small painted circle in the middle of the intersection. I never noticed one, perhaps because everyone drives right over it. It would only be visible, (if it hasn’t worn away), when there is no one in the intersection…in which case, of course, it would not matter so much.

Then there are the “filter-in” four-way intersections. They are clearly marked “FILTER IN” before you get to them.  Very helpful.  Has anyone outside the Channel Islands ever heard this term? I think not.  At these intersections, no one has priority; it is a matter of keeping an eye out, slowing down, and  if there are other cars about, you stop.  Then it is “first-come first-served” to go through, deferring to the right if there is any doubt. These are a bit like our four-way stops, without the stop signs. Thankfully the speed limit is low.

Speaking of stop signs…you will not see the internationally recognized red and white variety…so how do you know where to stop?  You watch for a yellow line painted across the road… yes, yellow…and that means you stop and yield to oncoming traffic.  But if the yellow line is on the side of the road, it means you must never stop there except to avoid an accident. Confused?  It is no surprise that the government of Guernsey posts an article on their tourism website entitled, with typical British understatement, “Driving in Guernsey is different”.

The rest of the driving is perfectly straightforward, if you don’t mind that most of the two-way rural roads are barely wide enough for one car, and are bordered by tall hedgerows or granite walls. These make it necessary to pull into a driveway or intersection, backing up if necessary, to accommodate an oncoming car.  You are just as likely to encounter horses, cattle or, heaven help them, cyclists, and you’ll need to back up for them as well. Guernsey drivers are quite insouciant about all this, but visitors can easily get rattled.

However, if you are lucky enough to be driven around by your sister or brother-in-law, to some of their favourite places, you will be blown away by the beautiful and varied scenery that characterizes this lovely small island.

Broad sweeping beaches
The woods, blanketed in bluebells. The island also features many other wild flowers such as orchids, pimpernels, and their own lily.
Rugged coastline too
And pastoral scenes like this.

This is perfect place to own a dog, and sure enough Chris and Rob have welcomed a new family member: the Lurcher (aka Asha).  I have never seen a lurcher before, in fact I had not even heard of the breed,  but I have learned since that a lurcher is always a cross with a “sight-hound”, dogs such as greyhounds, whippets, wolfhounds etc. They are hunting dogs cross-bred for speed and the ability to hunt by sight, as opposed to scent. They run unbelievably quickly and very quietly, so as not to scare their prey…(or the toy that you throw for them).  And they can look quite different, depending on what was crossed with what.  I have to say, I am very partial to the term “lurcher”, which has nothing to do with how they move; they are quite graceful.  It apparently derives from the Romani words for “thief” (lur) and “mutt” (cur). No surprise that it was a popular dog for poachers!  Here she is, an energetic speedster who either runs like the wind, or passes out on the couch. Nothing in between.

Asha, with a Napoleonic era fortress in the background.  Just a routine part of walking the dog.

My visit was timed to coincide with Guernsey’s literary festival, and it was a revelation in a number of ways.  It was my first one, and I found that I really enjoyed hearing authors talk about their work, especially the fiction writers. One of them was Rachel Joyce who wrote “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry”. I read that book years ago and loved it. She was such an engaging speaker that I promptly downloaded her new book: The Music Shop”.  It occurred to me that book signings must surely suffer from the e-reader phenomenon.

We also heard from travel adventurers who write about their improbable adventures, such as the 50 something year old woman who tried to run across the USA in 53 days. (Why 53 days? She wanted to beat the previous female record of 63 days.) At the equivalent of two marathons a day,  she finally had to throw in the towel after 2,000 miles. (Or lose a knee…which she may yet do.) Now she plans to take up long distance cycling.  Really? With damaged knees?

There was also an Aussie who spent a year kayaking, hiking and cycling around the Mediterranean.  At the point that he realized that it would be far too dangerous to cycle through Libya, (this was a surprise?), he traded his bicycle for a sea rowboat and almost died in a freak storm on his way to Greece. There seems to be no sensible limit to what some writers will do for copy.

Then there was the writer who took his girlfriend to a famously beautiful river in India and arranged a boat full of flowers and fruit to romance her in. Neglecting to consider some of the many uses to which rivers are put in India, they embarked one foggy morning to watch the sun rise, when she suddenly noticed as the fog lifted, an arm, attached to a corpse, that somehow had draped itself over the side of the boat, and which was impossible to detach in any respectful manner.

The relationship did not last.

Chris in front of the tent where some of the literary events were held. She is standing next to the island mascot: The Donkey.

Does anyone remember Pete Seeger?  Well, his half-sister Peggy is still going strong at 82 (!), and has written a memoir which she promoted by way of a concert on the opening night.  Naturally we had to go, and it gave me a chance to reconnect with another old friend, Carol,  who has made Guernsey her home. It was fun to listen to Peggy and her son; her vocal range was probably only half an octave, but boy can she ever play the guitar, banjo and piano! Flying fingers.  I never knew this before, but the song “The first time ever I saw your face”, (which Roberta Flack made famous), was written about Peggy in 1957 by actor/musician Ewan MacColl, who made it his mission to seduce her. He was 42; Peggy was 21.  (If you’ve ever heard that song, you will realize that she never had a chance.) He was married at the time, but not for long; Peggy soon became his wife.

Guernsey is blessed not only with a great deal of natural beauty, rural charm, and the very attractive town of St. Peter’s Port but also, possibly most importantly from a dining perspective, proximity to France.  This has ensured the migration of a number of talented chefs, wait staff,  and restaurant owners that has contributed to the high quality of cuisine on the Island.  As in Manchester, Chris picked several fabulous places, and we ate very well…possibly too well.

One of the features of  the Guernsey restaurant experience that I truly admire, is a service called “Home James”. If you are out at a charming French restaurant (as we were), and that extra glass of wine is calling your name (which it was), you have only to call “Home James”,  and a young person will pull up on a scooter at a time and place of your choosing.

The young person

Then he folds up the scooter,  puts it in your trunk, and drives you home.

Into the boot with the scooter, and home we went.

Once you get home, he takes out his scooter, and goes back to town to do it all over again. After all, driving in Guernsey is different.

The weather on Guernsey can be quite cool, and so it was when I was there, but the island’s residents are hardy souls.  It was not unusual to see people, like my brother-in-law Rob, walking about in temperatures of 10-12 degrees or so in shorts and tee shirts.  (I was bundled up in sweater and raincoat!) Then there is my sister who routinely goes swimming with her friends on chilly 10 degree mornings… in the English Channel!…an exceptionally frigid body of water.   I am in awe… but also a bit baffled by the idea that anyone would do this by choice.

After four terrific days of fine dining, literary adventures, great scenery, dog walking and good company, I said goodbye to Chris, Rob and the Lurcher at the airport, and left for Tel Aviv.  One delay, one missed flight, and four airports later I touched down in Israel,  but that is the subject of another story!

 

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Ah Manchester…

In my current focus on all things interesting and/or quirky in Tel Aviv, I had forgotten that few do eccentric as well as the British. I was reminded of this on my short visit to Manchester this past week.  As an example (one of several), I give you the Cat Cafe.  This is a pretty, couch-filled, establishment where patrons pay a flat rate of 6 pounds (about 11 dollars) for 30 minutes of tea, coffee and the opportunity for a bit of feline therapy with the cafe’s star attractions…(if they are in the mood to snuggle up and be friendly…they are cats after all).  Deborah, this is the city for you.

This would probably be breaking half a dozen laws at home.

It is a novel twist to the usual cafe culture, and it is very popular. My nephew, a cat lover, recently was given a 30 minute session as a gift, and he was in heaven.  It takes the British….

Lest you miss the point…

And then there are the pub names: The Ape and Apple, The Crafty Pig (also the Blue Pig, and The Blind Pig), the Tipsy Toad, the Lazy Toad, and the Slug and Lettuce, this latter being quite a large pub chain which features food that is hopefully better than the name implies. You could write a book on the peculiar pub names in the UK, and someone probably has. Tel Aviv has its comically named meat restaurants, and the UK its pubs.

And as for plain speech, although the British are notoriously polite, they can also be quite to the point; for example, here is the first place you see when walking through Manchester’s gay village:

Got it!

Of course I was not in Manchester in search of the odd and quirky. I was there to meet my sister on the first leg of my trip to Guernsey, and in order to get to Guernsey you have to fly from England. Since my nephew is at university in Manchester, and I had never been there, we decided to meet there and visit him (and the city) before heading on to the island.  That turned out to be a good call. Manchester is a great city, lively, interesting, and very walkable.

My sister, Chris, is a brilliant travel  organizer with impeccable taste, and true to form she booked us into a wonderful hotel. Since she had originally touted it as a boutique hotel I was expecting something small, vaguely modern, and uber- cool, but what I found was a huge, gorgeously renovated former insurance company, called The Principal.

Not small. Not modern.

This beautiful  lobby also features a very large statue of a horse.  This is a tribute to the period when the Refuge Assurance premises were first built in 1889; what is now the lobby was then the “turning circle”  where  horses and carriages would enter and drop off their occupants.

And this is my sister. If you travel with her you will never be disappointed.

The hotel has gorgeous rooms, many with 2 storey high ceilings, and several bars and restaurants, including a beautiful winter garden where we had lunch and tea. If you ever go and stay there, (and if you are in Manchester you should), ask for the Whitworth wing; it is quieter and the heating/cooling system works better. (i.e. It does actually work.)

The winter garden is in use all year,  weather not being Manchester’s strongest suit.

But not to be outdone by the Cat Cafe or the pubs, this stately hotel is not without its particular personality.  For one thing, dogs are outright welcome. (Equal time for all pets.) And for another, take a look at the room signs.  I did not notice them until I was leaving, and then I confess I took them both with me.  I hope they are readable if you are using your phone.  For a Canadian, these are just perfect.

I felt so at home.

Having settled into this palatial spot, we set out to explore the city.

Manchester is a vibrant and pedestrian friendly city that is busy transforming itself from its industrial past to a modern, young, alternative to London. Being from Toronto, I was immediately struck by its handsome red brick buildings, so much like  those in our old downtown, albeit a bit grander.  There are also plenty of contemporary buildings, as well as hybrids of the old and new. Some of these are very beautifully done.

With 4 universities and 100,000 students, a focus on job creation in a variety of sectors, and a relatively sane real estate  market, Manchester is becoming an attractive place to live and work.  However it is possibly a bit under-appreciated by some of the people who live in the area; on my flight up from Tel Aviv, my fellow passengers seemed quite perplexed that I was actually going to visit there…on purpose. “Visiting Manchester are you? Really? Why?” (Mind you, this person was from Leeds.)

Its mascot is the bee, in a proud nod to the “worker bee” label that used to be applied to its citizens. Since the tragic concert bombing of May 17th last year, the city has leaned heavily on the bee symbol to raise morale, and in a show of solidarity many people wear a little bee pin, or decorate their buildings, as below.

We also went to the University where we met my nephew Patrick, who is a music student there. It is, like the city itself, a pleasing mixture of the traditional and the modern. It has an art gallery, which is free to the public and which has some lovely exhibits inside and out:

Taken from inside. If it had not been so wet, I’d have gone closer…did I mention the rain? This is England.

 

I like the way the sculpture mirrors the tree. This sits just outside the University gallery’s restaurant/cafe. One of the many gorgeous spots to eat in the city.

There are an impressive number of places to eat, drink, or to have a proper tea at the university, among which is this little kiosk which I insert for Mike’s benefit, since he has spent a lot of his year on this very topic:

Middle Eastern food of course

But among the prettiest places is this library cafe where we had tea, complete with a tea-making gizmo that I took to immediately, and which I absolutely must have!

Not much reading going on here. But the tea is excellent.
The gizmo. How handy is this. I went for the 4 minute brew and it was perfect.

From my description, you might think that we spent a lot of time eating and drinking. This is true. And I have not even mentioned the beautiful hotel bar where we had pre-dinner drinks with my accomplished young nephew and his charming girlfriend, the restaurant we then went to, “The Hawksmoor”, with excellent meat and fish, and  “Tattu”, the  exquisite Chinese fusion restaurant  we visited the next day. (I did say my sister knows all the good places.)

It is not just the food that is exquisite here.

There is much else of interest in Manchester: quaint shops, artsy neighbourhoods, a stunning library, cultural venues, and even more to come, as the old riverfront is restored, and textile mills are transformed into condos and stores.

After two days, and having done enough damage to my waistline, we set off for Guernsey. But that is another story.

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Mike and Lili go to the Big Race!

Last week Israel was host to the opening of the “Giro”, Italy’s answer to the Tour de France.  The Giro has adopted a practice (marketing genius!) of starting the race in another country for the first three stages, before returning to Italy where the race concludes several weeks later.  This was the first time that the Giro organizers chose a country outside Europe, and the people of Israel were thrilled.  The time trials were in Jerusalem on Friday, followed by two long stages: the first, 167 km, from Haifa to Tel Aviv on Saturday, and the next, 229 km, on Sunday down through the desert to Eilat.

This was exciting, and since neither Mike nor I have ever seen anything of a big bike race, I consulted everything I could find on the internet to see when it might be passing by our neighbourhood. And notwithstanding Israel’s reputation as a high-tech powerhouse, the information that we were able to track down in English was unenlightening to say the least, but I took comfort in subsequently finding that the Hebrew speakers seemed no better informed. Maybe Italy handled all of that.

Now, in retrospect, I feel pretty stupid for not figuring out the likely time of the pass-through, but at the time, I just looked at the diagram that had what looked like “times” on it, and planned to be on Ibn Gvirol (a 7 minute walk from out house) at around 4:40. When we arrived, officials were still letting people cross the street, which was closed to traffic of course, so we took up a prime spot and waited.

Sure enough, soon afterwards, one of the police officers pulled up on a motorbike and gave instructions to the yellow jacketed volunteers (who had NO clue when anything would happen), and they closed the barriers. We felt pretty smug for having arrived just in time, and for having found a prime viewing spot!.

And we waited, and waited.  People who wanted to cross the street were told to wait, and numerous arguments ensued since it was obvious looking down the road that other crossings were letting people through, and that nothing was about to happen.

Time passed. More police/officials showed up on motorbikes and more people crossed the street. More spectators came and started to speculate on when the big moment would arrive.  We were getting on 45 minutes of waiting, and then some sponsor cars went by… their passengers waving merrily and enjoying the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd.  At that point we were happy to have anything to cheer.  And we waited…and waited…and waited some more.   More sponsor cars…more police…more nothing…and we waited.

It reminded me of going fishing with my Dad…lots of waiting in  the eternal hope that something would happen…any little sign was important, and an indication that the big fish, or even a little one, would bite any minute now. The race organizers sent out enough teases that we all thought something was about to occur, and we all stayed…and stayed…and stayed.

Finally at around 6:00, close to an hour and a half after we arrived, the serious cars came by, with equipment, spare bikes on top; also police on motorbikes, press, security types etc.  At this point, only the anarchic tried to cross the street…and of course there were a few of those…there always are…they just leapt over the barriers.

So here is the thing…I now realize that nothing really important happens until the  surveillance helicopter shows up! And finally it did.  At this point, I noticed that there was a little girl behind me who couldn’t see anything. I looked down and motioned her forward in front of me, and when I looked up the peloton went whizzing by.  It took seconds. The crowd barely had time to cheer!  And that was it…90 minutes of waiting…about 9 seconds of the race…if that.   Mike said that he now had a good answer to those who complain that baseball is too much wait time for too little action…clearly those folks have never gone to a bike race.

They went by in less time that it takes you to read this caption. 

 

The cyclists who got the most cheering were those poor laggards that were well behind the clump (pardon me…peloton) of faster riders.  You could see them visibly embarrassed by the attention.  But the enthusiastic crowd just wanted to show their appreciation and had not had enough time to to do that for the front runners. This might be the only sport where the losers get the most applause.

You have to feel for this guy

So there you go. Our first, and certainly our last, bicycle race. I am sticking to TV from here on in.

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The Carmel Market (Shuk HaCarmel)

Although I walk through (or around) the Carmel Market several times a week, I have been slow to write about it, possibly because my feelings about it are mixed.

On the one hand, it is lively and colourful, and is on a direct path to my Ulpan. So it should be a no-brainer to shop there.

On the other hand, it is undeniably shabby relative to other markets of its kind in Israel, and much of it is also pretty schlocky. (The city is apparently planning an upgrade…)  And even in the “off season” it can be so crowded that, direct path or not, a detour is usually a faster way to get where I  am going. Even with my “inner Israeli” in full swing, there is no amount of assertiveness that will get me through that mass of people in any kind of hurry.

Most people approach the market from the north end where it runs off Magen David Square. Here, groups of tourists cluster, and the odd local pulls up a chair, conveniently provided by the city, to listen to whatever busker has set up shop in the centre.  Occasionally there is some drama, if the beer drinking gets out of hand, or if the police decide to enforce the “no busker” rule, which happens about as often as they enforce the “no bikes on sidewalks” rule, which is to say, almost never.

A quiet day on Magen David Square, so named because 6 streets converge upon it.

Approaching the main street of the market you are greeted by an ever narrowing passageway, as the stalls that line the street push further into the centre, crowding the mob of tourists that stop at such emporia as this one:

When I said schlocky,  I was not kidding.

But once in a while, you can catch a glimpse of something like this which almost makes it worthwhile:

I am not sure how Disney would feel about this.

The  open air market continues about 4-5 blocks down HaCarmel Street and it is supposed to be less “open air” than it actually is.  There should be a cover which is meant to protect against  both the powerful sun and the occasionally fierce winter rains, but it is in rough shape. So on sunny days it is hot, and on rainy days…well…it is best not to go there. There are no prices on any of the merchandise, another reason I avoid shopping there. This is because the merchants have a refined pricing mechanism called “soak the tourist”,  and they can spot us a mile away; I  just don’t have the strength to fight with anyone about price, or about much else, to be honest.

Eventually, if you can push past all  the souvenirs etc, which is not easy given the crowds of people, you will get to the more traditional part of the market selling all kinds of fresh food, everything from fruits and vegetables to cheese, pastries and halvah.  Here, prices are still  generally not marked,  but since the sellers figure you might actually live around here if you are buying food, you are less likely to over-pay.  Meat and fish are sold in a parallel street market one block to the west. As that part of the market is all about raw unvarnished animal products it is much less busy, and a good deal more authentic.  It is not for the squeamish however.

In and around the market there are some lively little restaurants, very casual, and always packed. We have our eye on the Beer Bazaar, which carries over 100 types of Israeli craft beer,  but it is possible that we exceed the age limit for hanging out there. There is also a place that only serves humus and it is built to look just like a synagogue, both inside and out, which is unusual to say the least.  It is however reputedly one of the best places to get humus, and it is a real bargain.

Popular despite, or perhaps because of, the unusual decor.

The last time I fought my way through the Carmel madness, I came across one of those improbable Israel experiences that often sneak up on me when  I am intent on some errand.  Smack in the middle of the market, a group of Asian tourists, clutching little shofars, were singing  songs in Hebrew (!) concluding with a stirring rendition of Hatikvah.  (After which they blew their shofars). I have to say that even some of the normally rushed Israelis who actually shop there, seemed charmed, (or perhaps just startled), and stopped for a moment.

Even in a city that specializes in the unusual, this is unusual…

In my opinion, the real appeal of the area is  to be found on the side streets around HaCarmel street. To the east is are several streets closed to cars,  a sort of pedestrian mall, the central street of which is Nahalat Binyamin, where you can buy all manner of fabrics, thread, and wool, some displayed with the undeniably Tel Avivian talent for “out of the box” thinking:

The least dangerous bikes I have encountered so far.

In this area, you can also see a number of the colourful eclectic buildings that pre-date the Bauhaus trend. I often use some of these streets to skirt the main market because they are much less crowded, and well…because…you never know when you might want to stop and play a game of chess.

Ben, pondering his first move.

On Tuesdays and Fridays, there is  also an arts and crafts market along Nahalat Binyamin, where you can buy all kinds of charming gift items that are much nicer than the stuff in the market. (Admittedly, the t-shirts are not as funny.) It is well worth a visit.

On the west side of the market is the Yemenite quarter, also a largely pedestrian area, (bearing in mind that in Tel Aviv the definition of “pedestrian” is loose to say the least, and seems to include such things as motor scooters). This is a truly charming little residential neighbourhood that has a character entirely its own, much more like a small  Mediterranean village than part of a big city.

A little oasis of calm

So how to describe the Carmel market area?  Let’s see.  Shabby but also charming.  Schlocky but sometimes in a funny and endearing way. Hectic and aggravating yes, with moments of calm and loveliness. Eccentric for sure, and prone to sneaking up and surprising you.  In other words, it is just like the rest of Tel Aviv.