Dizengoff and Me

But not — it seems— out of Forest Hill…

This little gem of a parkette is located about 5 minutes from our apartment at the end of a tranquil little street off Ben Gurion. Naturally, we were charmed by its direct connection to our neighbourhood in Toronto, and then we noticed that it also has some modest historical significance. (Actually it’s the shack, still on site, that has the importance, since it was a base of operations of the Hagana and the Civil Guard for 10 years before the state of Israel was established.)

Yes, we are back!! With sunny days and temperatures in high twenties we feel as though we have been plunked right back into the middle of a Toronto summer, minus the late sunset. The sun goes down here around 5:45 at this time of year, and tonight the clocks go back, so soon it will be more like 4:30. Like many people, I fail to see the use in this exercise. Why not just keep daylight savings all year round? Nightfall on the Mediterranean should not be before 5:00. That’s okay for Scotland, but not here.

On our return, we found that our invasive fiddle head “tree” had grown another foot and was once again threatening our windows. The hole in the roof had continued to expand on all sides. It had rained recently and the usual bits of white plaster had accumulated in front of our door. The upcoming winter rainy season was looking risky.

And then, a few days later, we were awoken by a ferocious noise right above us — was the roof finally falling in? The noise gradually morphed into regular banging, and to our astonishment we realized that the hole was being fixed!! And a few days later a truck pulled up, with an enormous crane, to hoist stacks of new membrane to the roof, much to the dismay of the line of cars trapped behind it . The elusive “house committee” had been infiltrated by our next door neighbour, and he was going for a permanent fix, not the usual “duct tape and hope” approach. Bless him.

And to paraphrase Dr. Suess, “that is not all — oh no — that is not all.”

Between the roof banging, and the arrival of the new roof membrane, another surprise was in the offing. One afternoon, noticing that our least favourite tree was shaking and swaying a bit more than usual, Mike went and looked out the window. “Lil, come look!” There, leaning out of a window in the apartment below us was a very tall guy, using what looked like an extendible golf ball retriever equipped with a scythe-like saw at its end. It looked vastly unequal to the job, but he was methodically cutting back branch after branch after branch. And then — be still my heart — he came up to our place and cut a bit more.

My inner lumberjack and trusty saw are now officially retired. The air flow is better, the light is better, and the neighbours have a much better view of our bedroom.

It is good to be home.

P.S. Perhaps I should not have tempted fate with this post. The air conditioning just broke. I cannot help but feel that the work on the roof has something to do with it.

(Apologies in advance to readers who don’t share my obsession with odd rules of grammar.)

In a previous post I talked about the bewildering application of the gender rules in the Hebrew language. Today, I am going to focus on one of the other peculiarities of this very interesting language; the fact that several words are only used in their plural form.

For example, “panim”, the word for “face”, is also the word for “faces” and has no singular form. (“im” is the common plural ending for a male noun.) So “a face in the street” is the same as “faces in the street”. Both translate to “panim ba rehov”. The verb form that goes with it is plural and so are the adjectives. This is, to say the least, a challenge for a new Hebrew speaker (a.k.a. me), since you have to remember that if you want to say that ” her face was beautiful”, you have to remember to say that “her faces were beautiful”, and make sure that the word “beautiful” is also plural. Who thinks this way?

The same is true for water (mayim), sky (shamayim), and life (chaim). “A blue sky” is said the same way as “blue skies”, blue water is “blue waters” and so on. “A life was lost” is the same as “lives were lost”.

But perhaps the most interesting example of a word that always appears in the plural form, is “Elohim”, the first word for God to appear in the Torah. As with the words above, the ending “im” is the classic plural (male) indicator. But in stark contrast to the words above, when you use Elohim to mean God, everything else (verbs, adjectives etc.) are in the singular, a rare grammatical mismatch in Hebrew. But one that leaves no doubt as to the singularity of Elohim.

Unless… you really are referring to more than one god, in which case it is still possible to use “Elohim”, but in such a case plural verbs and adjectives are required. (You had to know there would be a twist.)

The best example of this is in the Torah itself, where the ten commandments begin: I am the Lord your God (Elohim) who brought you forth from Egypt out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other (plural adjective) gods (Elohim) before me. In these two short sentences “elohim” is used both ways, by Elohim himself.

When we chant in Hebrew, “Adonai Eloheinu” (The Lord is our God), we are grammatically saying “The Lord is our Gods”, which may account for the frequent addition of “The Lord is One”. (Let there be no confusion.)

I am probably not standing on firm theological ground here, but I feel this could be viewed as a linguistically elegant illustration of the shift from polytheism to monotheism. Many gods (“elohim”) morph grammatically into one “elohim” with the mere change of verb and adjective to the singular (male, of course) form.

Coming back to the word “panim” (face/faces). It has an additional feature that sets it apart from water, sky, life (and Elohim). Not only is it always used in plural form, it can also be either masculine or feminine. There is a choice. This gender fluidity, as you may recall from an earlier post, is an attribute held by a number of nouns, and was most recently bestowed on the humble sock.

None of this of course answers the question, “Why?”. Unsurprisingly, I am not the first to have posed this question, but the speculative theories I have encountered so far have been not been convincing. Some people undertake a poetic explanation along the lines of “people show many faces to the world”, so the word is aptly plural. (I don’t buy it.) Others compare it to “moose” in English which can be either plural or singular. This misses the point, since you would never use “the moose were beautiful” and have it interpreted as a single moose; but this is exactly what happens with “panim”.

I took a look at the Hebrew Academy’s website to see if they have anything to say about the “plural face” issue and, at the very least, I learned that this phenomenon does have a technical name: “the perpetual plural”. They note that some linguists theorize that because these are such ancient words, they may have come into use before a distinction was made between singular and plural. This might make sense for “water” and “sky” and possibly even “life”, but it’s hard to see it for “face”.

So unfortunately, I cannot explain why face is always plural in Hebrew. I can however account for why the word “moose” behaves oddly in English. It was borrowed fairly recently (by language standards) from an indigenous North American language, and since it already ends with an “s” sound, it was decided to just leave it that way. It was not aligned with “goose/geese” because that plural convention, along with “foot/feet”, “tooth/teeth” etc. is from a much earlier form of English, that actually predates the use of the “s” suffix.

And before I go any further down this particular rabbit hole, I will mercifully close this post.

You’re welcome.

(And in a postscript for Hebrew speakers, I also learned that the word “pan” (meaning “facet”) — which looks like it could have been the original singular form of “panim” — only came into use in medieval times. It derives from “panim” and not the other way around. )

Outside our fourth floor living room window, gradually working its way to the edges of our windows, is a huge old olive tree. I have to say, there is something about having an olive tree just outside our window that makes me believe, at least briefly, that I am living an idyllic Mediterranean lifestyle.

Down the other side of our building is a more modestly sized orange tree with a grapefruit tree right next to it. The grapefruits are actually edible; we tried them last season. They are yellow ones, slightly on the small side, really quite nice; but no substitute for the huge red ones from our really excellent (and expensive) greengrocer, a family business run by a bunch of classic macho Israeli brothers, that goes by the name of “Fruity Land”. ( I kid you not — I have a year’s supply of fridge magnets to prove it!)

About 100 yards down the street, there is a banana tree (more of a bush actually) and a pomegranate tree.

With all this abundance so close by, you might think we were living in some kind of bucolic paradise out in the countryside, instead of in the noisy heart of Tel Aviv. It is one of the things I like most about living here, and an aspect of the city that is often missed by tourists.

It is not just the fruit trees that I love. The city is also home to many gorgeous flowering trees and bushes, especially at this time of year.

But enough about paradise…

Yes, we do have trouble; and I am not talking about the endless construction, the impossible parking, the new bus lines on our street, or the anarchic behaviour of the various two-wheeled vehicles that terrorize the average pedestrian.

No. I am talking about a different tree — one that is growing up our side of the building — commonly known as a “fiddle-leaf fig”, usually considered a “must have” houseplant. There is nothing remotely “houseplant -like” about this particular example of the species; an invasive aggressor that clearly has met no opposition, natural or human, for its entire lifetime. (Nor, for that matter, is there anything about it that evokes a fiddle.)

Left to its own devices since the building was erected some 70 years ago, it now has leaves bigger than my head, sprawls wildly over 30 feet in width, and towers 50 feet high. It sits right outside our bedroom window, and as best I can see, is now making an effort to move right in with us.

When we first moved in, I was taken in by the charms of its greenery, and the privacy it provided from the building next door. Hah! I failed to appreciate that, lacking the solid centre structure of a tree trunk, and possessed of huge leaves and long branches, even a slight breeze could cause a lot of movement. Sure enough, the languid “swaying in the breeze” of the summer season, led inevitably to our fierce winter storms and the deranged banging of branches against the window shutters. For some reason storms seem to occur mostly at night and there was no sleeping through the racket! I am still amazed that nothing was broken.

Apparently the fiddle-leaf fig loves the hot humid summers of Tel Aviv, because when we came back in the fall, the branches had grown another foot, poking through the window grate and up against our large windows. In fact, when the windows were open, and a slight breeze was up, the odd branch leaned right inside. This did not augur well for the winter ahead.

I mentioned this problem to our next door neighbour. He is actually one of the few residents that owns his place — most of us rent from absentee landlords — so I thought he might have inside knowledge on how to get things done. He is a good guy, but even he gave the standard response along the lines of: “this is the responsibility of the Vaad Bayit (house committee)” — which is code for — “Good luck. You figure it out”.

House committees are a very rough equivalent of condo corporations, and the way landlords speak of them, you would think they were composed of mysterious foreigners from another planet, instead of a handful of their fellow apartment owners. The concept of a reserve fund is equally foreign, so if repairs are needed to common areas — like the roof in our building which has an ever-expanding leak — the funds need to be cajoled out of the pockets of the individual owners/landlords. And they all have to agree to the specifics of the scope of work, contractor, cost etc. And they are all Israeli… (Agreement not their strong suit.)

On investigating the matter a bit further, I discovered that to complicate matters even more, our particular “fiddle-leaf” actually originates on the property next to ours, even though its “airspace” is primarily on our side. The prospect of not one, but two, elusive house committees was too much to contemplate, so in in good Canadian fashion, I channeled my “inner lumberjack” and dealt with the invader myself. I bought a good-sized saw and spent a long afternoon leaning out the window as far as I could, hacking away at the surprisingly tough branches. Mike was amazed.

So the good news is that the advance of the giant fiddle-leaf fig has been checked — for now. The windows survived the winter and we got some sleep. And I still have my trusty saw, ready for battle next year.

The bad news is that the leak in the roof is still in the hands of the “house committee”.

As most of you know, I have spent most of my time for the the last seven months studying Hebrew, the most difficult language I have had the pleasure of breaking my head over. Fortunately, I have been blessed with lively and engaging teachers and interesting classmates, so the process has been fun, despite my ever-present feeling of bafflement.

There are a whole host of reasons that Hebrew is so challenging, especially for English speakers. Take a different alphabet that reads from right to left, leave out useful things like vowels and capital letters, change up the sound and/or form of certain letters depending on their position in a word — and well — at least it’s not Chinese.

But the particular linguistic challenge that I want to focus on in this post is the gender issue.

I have studied other gendered languages, but never one as relentlessly so as this one. There is simply no concept of “it”. All nouns and pronouns are masculine or feminine — and adjectives must match. Verb conjugations are also gendered so that for example the word “go” in, I “go”, you “go”, or they “go” would be different for men and women. The car “goes” (fem) is a different verb form than the plane “goes” (masc) or the bicycle “goes” which, as it happens, is not just masculine but plural! (Don’t ask.) Consequently, there is an awful lot of thinking that has to go into every sentence. It is very tiring.

And of course, in any given group of people or things that have even one masculine member, the masculine pronoun and related verb or adjective will prevail. Proponents of gender equality have yet to find a way around this, and those who prefer neutral pronouns such as “they” in English are equally stymied.

Apart from obvious words like man and woman, there is often no particular logic to the assignment of gender, and so many exceptions to how they migrate into the plural, that it is foolish to think you can rely on any rules of thumb. Nonetheless we cannot help try.

Which brings me to the sock.

There is a general rule that many things that come in pairs — especially those related to the body — which in the plural end in “ayim”, are often feminine. For example: eyes, ears, lips, arms, legs, feet and so forth. Also shoes. But not socks. They are masculine, as in the image above.

Or at least they were… when we first studied pages and pages of exceptions three weeks ago. But then, that very week, the Academy of the Hebrew Language, the authority on all things Hebrew — which usually focuses on coming up with new words for novel things like “computers” — decided in its wisdom that henceforth “socks” may be either masculine or feminine, whichever you like!! (As is so charmingly illustrated below.)

Why “socks” should be subject to such special treatment, and not “boots” or “ankles”, is anyone’s guess.

“Breasts”, on the other hand, remain resolutely masculine, linguistically speaking.

Normally I like to write about the small oddities that catch my eye in the course of a day here, however a few days ago I was flipping through Facebook —where I spend far too much time these days — and I noticed this advertisement, which I feel belongs in the “larger oddity” collection. Could any of us have imagined even a year ago that we would be welcome to come from Israel to celebrate Passover (!) in the United Arab Emirates?

No, I thought not. This is from the Dubai Marina Hotel.

You would think that Benjamin Netanyahu, the man who engineered this surprising rapprochement — and then went on to ensure the full vaccination of some 85% of Israeli adults — would have waltzed his way to election victory a week ago. But such is the dysfunction (politely speaking) of Israels’s proportional representation system, combined with a plethora of special interest parties and big egos, (not to mention the small matter of his criminal trial), that the fourth election in two years was so indecisive that it could well lead to a fifth in a matter of months. This is all good news for the pundits and talking heads, but not for anyone else.

The polling station for our normally sedate neighbourhood was in a school right across from our apartment, and we had an excellent view of the action. To say that there was a festive air about it is to understate the matter. Most of the mainstream parties set up booths and man them with enthusiastic young supporters trying to make a last minute pitch to the undecided — or anyone else. If an actual party leader shows up (and at least one did) the place erupts in chanting, drumming and general mayhem. This is apparently illegal within 100 metres of the polling station…

Election day in Israel is a real holiday — a day off work — with cafes, restaurants and stores thronged with people, and afternoon barbecues taking place all over town. Any excuse for a party is welcome, especially after a year of Corona lockdowns. Even Mike and I got into the act and had a few people over for lunch. It felt a bit surreal to compare the street scenes on Election Day to those from just a few weeks earlier.

And one more unexpected encounter…

By way of background, we have long wanted to meet Vivian Bercovici, the former Canadian Ambassador to Israel (2014-2016) — now a journalist living in Tel Aviv — who writes intelligent, insightful, and often witty pieces for a number of papers, including the National Post. Through a mutual friend we finally arranged a small dinner for the four of us at our place, shortly before the election. It would be, we hoped, a relaxed and convivial evening full of interesting conversation about politics and life in Israel. To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous — after all she had been an ambassador— so I spent the day madly cleaning up the apartment, and fretting over the menu so as not to make a bad impression. In the worst case, I figured that since she is originally from Toronto, we would all find common ground, even if I did put a foot wrong (diplomatically speaking).

So as she arrived — before the door even closed behind her — she immediately turned to Mike and asked if he was Sheila Shain’s brother! Okay — we were off to the races. It turns out that Vivian grew up right across the street from the Shain family in Bathurst Manor (affectionately known as “the Manor”), a tight- knit Jewish neighbourhood in northwestern Toronto, which has imbued in its former residents a near mythic level of nostalgia. (Albeit with no desire to go back and actually live there.) Within a nanosecond she and Mike were deep down memory lane; so far did they travel, that it took us quite a while to get out of the Manor and back into politics, Israeli vs Canadian life, and other topics of interest that I had fondly imagined discussing. I felt kind of bad for our other guest, the mutual friend that arranged the evening. He is from Ottawa.

It was a great evening. I had no idea diplomats could be so much fun. There was wine…

I realize that my brief analysis of the Israeli election was perhaps lacking in nuance, so for those who would like to learn a bit more (without investing tons of time), I attach a link to Vivian’s latest article. Enjoy — or weep —depending on your perspective. (I lean to the latter.)

https://nationalpost.com/opinion/vivian-bercovici-indecisive-israeli-vote-leaves-netanyahu-fighting-for-political-life

Living in Israel is always an experience in contrast. At the same time as the country leads the world in vaccine administration, it also leads the world in per capita cases of the Corona virus. There are a lot of reasons for that, which are amply covered by the press, so I won’t dwell on them. But as a result, we are living in Israel’s third lockdown which, among other things, limits one’s movement to 1,000 metres from home. Yes, there are lots of exceptions, such as essential errands, medical appointments, seeing a lawyer (?), and for some reason, going to a demonstration. (In our case, pretty much anything we might need can be found just a short walk from home.)

However, for our daily walks, we decided to concentrate on the area within 1,000 metres of where we live. Our apartment is located in an area known as the “Old North” which was built mainly in the 30s and 40s, before the establishment of the state. It is only “old” relative to the rest of the northern part of the city. Leafy and green, it has excellent access to the sea and to the “Tayelet”, a long pedestrian walkway along the beach that runs all the way from the north port down to Jaffa. I say “pedestrian” because it is meant for walkers; but like everywhere else in Tel Aviv, this restriction is loosely interpreted by the anarchic riders of bikes and scooters, conventional and electrified alike.

It always surprises me to see fruit growing in a city, and we see a lot of it here. Oranges, I now take for granted, but bananas? Kumquats?

So within just 100 metres of our house we can definitely put together a fruit salad.

We can also stroll down Ben Gurion Blvd. where, believe it or not, you can find the odd olive tree — also lots of young people walking, biking and picnicking, although there is less of the latter during the lockdown. At the foot of Ben Gurion, about a 10 minute walk from where we live, is a large square overlooking the sea. The square itself is a bit of a white elephant but the views are amazing. We could probably go down to the Tayelet for a walk and still be within our 1000 metres, but we wouldn’t have much extra distance to work with. Maybe next week.

Sometimes we just wander around, taking streets that catch our eye, many of them only a block or two long. We almost never fail to find some little park we did not know about, shaded by large trees, and fitted up with pretty sitting areas and a playground or two for kids, of which there are many up this way. This one caught our eye, because of the sculpture. This city is justifiably well known for its public art, especially sculpture, but it is not not usually found in kids’ playgrounds.

If we walk the other way up Ben Gurion, maybe 5 minutes or so from our place, we get to Rabin Square where the city’s exceptionally ugly city hall is located (see post on Tel Aviv Architecture). There is a huge space for public gatherings, often used for demonstrations or national celebrations. Now it is home to a large tent (not shown) dedicated to Coronavirus tests, and an even larger one (see below) set up to administer vaccinations. I took this picture on the night that we received our second dose. Truly, the roll-out here has been extraordinarily well organized. Less than an hour after our shot we got a confirmation from the government confirming the exact batch and lot number of both doses, in case we needed to report side effects!

Despite this very positive development, we stay locked down with the same inconsistent and often illogical restrictions that have characterized much of the world’s Corona virus strategy. And, as also seems common the world over, the police are only too happy to pounce on the minor transgressions of the inherently compliant, while steering clear of the well organized and sometimes militant segments that flout all the rules.

In addition to our daily walks, and the odd visit with Ben, we stay busy with intensive Hebrew classes (homework and all) that run five days a week from 8:30-1:00 — on Zoom. We should have been in the language school down the street, but it is closed right now. Learning in a Zoom classroom has one advantage and several disadvantages. The advantage is that in a torrential rainstorm, you can stay nice and cozy in your apartment and still be in class. The disadvantages include: far too much screen time which is very tiring, far too little personal interaction, and worst of all, the little square on the screen where you are looking at yourself…a disheartening sight that always fills me with a burning desire to get a haircut and put on make-up.

The inspiration for this post actually occurred when we were here last February, staying in a super basic Airbnb, overlooking a multi-level parking garage on a modest little street called Luria. This was our home base while we searched for a long-term apartment and wrestled with the Interior Ministry over our visas.

I was sitting in the living room when I could have sworn I heard the “clop clop” of horse hooves going down the street. I immediately dismissed this as being impossible in the heart of the city. But I was wrong. Not two days later we saw an old horse, pulling a workaday cart, turning down Luria as we came home. I was not quick enough to get a photo and I never saw him again. But it did bring to mind Dr. Suess’s Mulberry Street.

And that got me to thinking that there is no need to invent the interesting things that can be found when walking the streets of Tel Aviv.

For example, normally in Magen David square, just outside the Carmel market, you will find big crowds surrounding karaoke singers or speakers fervently denouncing some recent outrage. When I last walked by however, the market was still closed due to virus restrictions, and the square was virtually empty but for a lovely young woman — belly dancing to exotic music. With hardly a soul around to watch her, I think she kept going just for the joy of it.

And in the “you can’t make this stuff up” category, I give you the aptly named Crazy House, a condo building overlooking Independence park and the sea. The first picture is taken from the front, and the second from the back of the building.

The building was designed by Leon Gaignebet in the 1980s, and was considered to be inspired by Gaudi, about whom I confess I knew very little. But when I googled his buildings in Barcelona I could certainly see how that idea arose, even though Gaignebet categorically denied any connection. Apparently the inside is also very unusual, however since people actually live there, it is not possible to see it.

The fanciful design is meant to unite the Mediterranean and the desert. The white curvy trim that faces front and west evokes the waves of the sea. The back side, which faces east and inland reflects the colours and landscape of the desert. This is the only building of its kind that Gaignebet designed. After enduring a 7 year battle to wrest a building permit from the city, he went back to less controversial work.

And this brings me back to the horse and cart on Luria Street. It turns out that this was a traditional sight in Tel Aviv’s history, as “alte zachen” pedlars plied their trade, picking up scrap metal or second hand items, in carts drawn by horses or donkeys. Even when Arab Israelis took over the trade, they kept the old Yiddish terminology, calling for “alte zachen” (old things) as they drove the streets, taking their wares to Jaffa for sale. The practice was only banned in 2009 (ineffectively) and again in 2014, out of concern for the well-being of the animals. The second ban was much more rigorous, although evidently not 100%.

So, a quaint piece of history that I chanced to meet — and to think that I saw it on Luria street.

(With thanks to Dr. Suess, whose name in Hebrew actually means “horse”— how is that for a coincidence?)

Mike and I have been back in Israel for about 2 weeks. Our timing was perfect. When we left, Canada was still a “green” country (COVID-wise) so we did not have to quarantine on arrival. (Halleluya!) That changed a week later, as Canada moved to “red” status. Here, where the virus is more commonly referred to as “Corona”, cases have dropped quite a bit from the peak in early fall. Restrictions still abound however, most noticeably in the closing of restaurants, bars, indoor malls, museums, universities etc., and in the wearing of masks in all public spaces, even outdoors. (more on this later)

We have settled back into our apartment (see last post) which we had not seen for 8 months. It is as lovely as we remembered it, but there are a few details I had forgotten. For example, we must have the cleanest streets in Tel Aviv. How do I know this? Well everyday, promptly at 7:00 in the morning, what sounds like a low-flying jet — but is really a street cleaning truck — makes the first of several swings by our building. First it sweeps the road, then it comes back and sweeps the road that branches off ours. Then it comes back and a guy hoses down the sidewalks on one side, and then it comes back one more time to hose down those on the other. Okay, okay — we are awake now.

Then the buses start to run, and soon after that the kids arrive at the school across the street, where the change of classes is occasionally marked with lively music! This is all an excellent arrangement if you have to get up early for work or classes — not that anyone is going anywhere, thanks to Corona.

Apart from this, we have been enjoying beautiful weather so far, mid-twenties and sunny, with a bit of rain now and then. It will get cooler and wetter as we go, but in checking the weather reports from home, we will not be complaining.

(Update: Last night and all today there was a rainstorm of biblical proportions — Noah would have been impressed.)

I mentioned the mandatory mask policy. Everything I had read before coming here described rigorous enforcement and the ever present threat of fines, along with arbitrary and occasionally harsh policing— and it is true that almost everyone has a mask. How they are worn is another matter entirely.

Outside, we have observed the demi- mask (below the nose), the chin mask (or “chin diaper” as Ben and his friends call it), the neck mask, the ear mask, the wrist mask, the arm mask and — if you can somehow look as though you are out for exercise — no mask at all. Running shoes and spandex — that’s the ticket. Inside, and on the buses, a more conventional approach prevails — most of the time.

With so many things closed, what do we do all day? So far this has not really been a problem. Israeli bureaucracy is a fool-proof way to use up time. For example, a simple errand to add me to Mike’s Israeli bank account, required making an appointment on-line which, on arrival at the bank, allowed him to insert his card into a machine and get a chit with a number. This allowed us to enter and sit in a small area that reminded me of an old government office — soviet style.

After 10-15 minutes waiting for our number to flash up on TV screen, we explained our mission to a very pleasant and well-meaning banker, who went on to print a myriad of forms, and to wrestle with a completely dysfunctional computer system. After two hours she essentially gave up, sent us home and said she would finish up the next day and call us. (She then advised us never to come to the bank on the first day of the business week. The computers just can’t handle it.)

And that was only half of the story. The next half required a 45 minute journey, two weeks later, to a different branch (with actual tellers) to pick up and validate our new credit cards. After going through the machine, number chit, and waiting room routine again, we got the cards — success! Or not. To validate them and acquire a Pin number, we needed another two hours with two different helpful bankers, and a new set of computer and call centre problems. Truthfully, it made me reflect fondly on the Canadian banking system.

So now, equipped with a joint bank account and new credit cards, we can move on to trying to figure out why my bus pass just lost 46 shekels in the process of “upgrading” me to Senior Citizen status! The fun never ends.

Occasionally someone will ask me why I call my blog “Dizengoff and Me”. It ‘s a good question. And with all due credit to Mike, who thought of the name, there is a story behind it. And since I am finally back in Tel Aviv, it is time to tell it.

Tel Aviv was, and still remains, the original inspiration for this blog. Anyone who has ever visited this city knows the name “Dizengoff.” It is everywhere. Dizengoff Street is a wide elegant avenue — lined with restaurants, bars, cafes, and shops — that runs south from the port and eventually leads to (and around ) Dizengoff Square, which is not a square, but a circle. There is more to this circular square than meets the eye — more about that later.

From there the street leads to the Dizengoff Centre, an indoor shopping mall in the heart of town, designed in the same confusing spirit — and with almost as much concrete — as the city’s central bus station (see earlier post). A peculiar spiral layout ensures that even if you can see where you want to go, you can go through a frustrating exercise in “going around in circles” before you get there — if you ever do. (And even after a full year, I have yet to figure out where the alleged movie theatre is.)

Add to this the Dizengoff Tower right next door — another unfortunate example of 60’s architecture — and you would be forgiven for thinking the man must have been in the concrete business.

But no, it was just his misfortune that city officials chose to honour Meir Dizengoff at a time when Brutalist architecture was all the rage.

On the other hand, there is a lovely park in his memory, Gan Meir, a green oasis in the heart of town. Full of towering shade trees, children’s playgrounds, benches, and a large pond, it is also a good place to find a dog — of your own — since every Friday the local version of the Humane Society brings dogs and puppies in need of home to this park for adoption. I’d like to think that Dizengoff would have approved.

So who was Meir Dizengoff and why is he all over the Tel Aviv map? The simple answer is that he was Tel Aviv’s first mayor; but there is more to it than that.

Few people are instrumental in creating a city from scratch, but Meir Dizengoff is such a one. His was among the 60 founding families that drew lots in 1909 for the first homes to be built on the sand dunes that would become Tel Aviv. While his fellow Zionists largely concentrated on restoring the countryside to agricultural productivity, he and the first families of what was then called “Ahuzat Beit”, were building a brand new city. It was said about him that he could “reminisce about the future” — and what a future he had in mind! His vision included a vibrant garden city with parks, wide green boulevards, running water, and modern utilities. (In 1923 Tel Aviv became the first city in Palestine to be wired for electricity.) The town was to be the epicentre of the newly flourishing Hebrew language, full of culture and innovation, and built in an orderly grid pattern. The “orderly” part did not exactly come about — this being Israel — but much of the rest did.

He first came to Palestine as a young engineer, in the late 19th century – at the behest of Baron Rothschild – to build a glass factory near Haifa. He brought with him his beautiful and gracious young wife Zina, who soon contracted malaria, a common risk of living in the region at that time. She recovered, but lost their first and only baby girl to the illness. Some say that Tel Aviv subsequently became their beloved only child, so great was their love for the fledgling city and its people.

A force of nature, Dizengoff persuaded famous literary figures such as Bialik and Ahad Ha’am to come to Tel Aviv, and immediately named streets after them. He strong-armed Reuven Rubin into collaborating on the first Tel Aviv Art Museum, a tribute to Zina Dizengoff who died young and who so loved fine art. Dizengoff donated his house for this purpose and the museum opened in 1932, well before the founding of the state of Israel. Fittingly it was there, in 1948, that Israel declared Independence. Few now remember that 16 Rothschild Blvd. was first Dizengoff’s home and then Tel Aviv’s first art gallery. But there, in front of what is now Independence Hall, is his statue for those who care to look.

Although cars had come into use in Tel Aviv while Dizengoff was mayor, he continued his practice of riding his horse daily from his house to the City Hall, which was then on Bialik Street. He and his horse were also always at the head of the annual Purim parade. Curiously, as I was writing this post, I heard what sounded like a horse going by my window. I went to look and sure enough there was an old fashioned scrap cart drawn by a horse down Luria St! Not nearly as impressive a creature as Dizengoff’s, but the timing of its appearance could hardly have been better, and was my first sight of a “working horse” in car-jammed Tel Aviv. I saw it again a few days later.

To bring the story back to Dizengoff Square, I am sure I am not the only one who just assumed that this landmark was yet another tribute to this visionary figure, so vital toTel Aviv’s history. But I learned otherwise when I read the biography of his wife Zina. A modest man, Dizengoff was initially reluctant to allow the use of his name for the square when it was inaugurated in 1934, but he relented when persuaded that it would be a tribute to his wife’s memory. It was formally called Zina Dizengoff square. A lovely circular park —featuring a large fountain, flowers, and trees — anchored the site: and both Dizengoff Street and its buildings were built to curve around this graceful green space. It was all designed by Genia Auerbach, a prominent female Zionist architect. .

For over 40 years it remained a central meeting spot much visited by locals and tourists alike. Sadly, in 1978 the demands of traffic flow caused the city to decide to demolish the square and the fountain and create an elevated concrete pedestrian overpass featuring a modern fountain (called a “kinetic sculpture”) at its centre. This was the only way I had ever seen the site and I just considered it another Brutalist eyesore. I had no idea how attractive it had once been.

Today the city has restored the square to its original design. For most of the year we were here it was a giant construction site, and I had no idea what was to come. I was pleasantly surprised to come back and find the square back to its lovely circular configuration at street level; and even the modern “kinetic” fountain sculpture has found a new home at its centre.

Meir Dizengoff died in 1936, having spent the better part of 25 years as the founder and leader of the first Jewish municipality to be established in modern times. He never saw the establishment of the State of Israel, nor the impressive growth of Tel Aviv — the city to which he was devoted, and which in turn keeps his name alive. The title of my blog is a modest tribute to both the man and the city.