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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.

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The Sentimental Shopper

There must be a million little boutiques in this town, most extremely small. Some are crammed to the rafters with stock, which makes it difficult to assess if anything is worth trying; and some are artfully laid out with so little merchandise that it is only too easy to pass them by with just a quick glance.  I often wonder how most of them survive.

It is not unusual for me to have trouble deciding where to put my efforts on the shopping front, (especially after my experience with boots and halvah), but over this last few months, I have established at least one rule of thumb; if there is a sentimental reason to go into a store and look around, I’ll give it a go. This has worked out pretty well.

For example, just down Frishman Street on the way to the beach is a little store with this sign:

Note the establishment date!

So the name of store is “Lili” in Hebrew.  It was established in 1954, as you can see on the right side of the sign. And as you might guess from the display, it sells lingerie. So I ask you…Is my name Lili?  Was I also established in 1954 (so to speak)? Do I like lingerie? Yes, Yes and Yes!  How could I not buy something there.

Also on Frishman, is a store called of all things, “Gertrud”. You have to admit this is an unlikely name for an Israeli store, especially one that sells fashion forward clothing. But there it is.

Another deciding factor; the ever enticing words, “Final Sale”

And since Gertrude was the name of my beloved mother-in law, who also had a keen eye for a bargain, (as many a Mexican beach vendor can ruefully attest)…naturally I had to go in.  And did some very successful shopping. She would have been proud.

The next little shop is called “Lili and Tom”.  Well my brother’s name is Tom, so on principle I had to check it out.  It is a lovely boutique full of children’s clothes, and since fortunately we now have two grandsons, this was perfect…in I went.  The light was not very good for the picture of the store window below, but you can see…if you look to the bottom…there it is in English.

And for those interested in the Hebrew version, here is the shopping bag…with my purchase in it of course.

Lili And Tom in Hebrew

There is also a restaurant called “Lili 24”, (my birthday), and a place to stay called Casa Lili Luxury Suite  (luxury…my middle name according to Mike); but I think that is the extent of the “Lili” theme, you’ll be happy to know.

The rest of the family is covered in the hospitality industry: Mike’s Place…a well known bar with a number of locations in Israel, Jessica Resto-Bar near the beach (well reviewed), and the Benjamin Business Hotel which, like our son himself, is located in Herziliya.  I am not making any of this up.

I suppose I should be glad that I have not found any family-named establishments that sell, say, plumbing fixtures. That could be a bit awkward.

 

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From Yom Hashoah to Independence

What do the Carmel Market and the Donalda Golf Club have in common? Well, in general not very much, except if you happen to be having lunch with the irrepressible Sol Nayman and his lovely wife Queenie.  In that case, in both locations you will have an endless stream of visitors to your table, exchanging greetings, and generally paying homage.  It’s a bit like sitting with the most popular mayor ever!

Sol is a Holocaust survivor, and  at the time of our lunch had just arrived in Israel via Poland,  together with his young charges from the Toronto delegation of the March of the Living. They had come in time to observe Yom HaZikaron and Independence Day, an uplifting start to the Israel segment of the trip.  Everyone was only too happy to soak up the vibrant colours of Israel; the sunshine, and the fresh food…especially after the gloom of Poland and the grim memory of the death camps.

A gap in their packed schedule enabled us to meet Sol and Queenie at the Carmel Market…and although we were lucky to find a somewhat out of the way restaurant in the market area, a surprising number of kids, chaperones, and others found their way to our table to say hello.  (Why am I surprised? The same thing happens at home! Think bees to honey… lobbyists to politicians…you get the idea. )  I probably met more people in that two hours that I have in my whole stay in Israel. (Unfortunately, I will never remember any of their names.)

Sol, cutting a rug, surrounded as usual by his many fans

Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) , which I wrote about last week, and which Sol and the MOL group experienced in Poland, led to Yom HaZikaron this Tuesday/Wednesday.  This time the sirens sounded twice; for one minute at 8:00 in the evening, and the next morning for two minutes at 11:00.  Again the nation came to a stop.  As the evening siren sounded, we could see whole families coming to stand in respect at the windows of their apartments.  In the morning, we stood outside for two minutes with office workers, students, and teachers at our Ulpan, and also with the drivers who stopped to stand by their cars, to honour the memory of those who fell in battle, and those who died in terrorist attacks.  Following that, there was a small and emotional ceremony upstairs. We each lit a memorial candle, some of us read poetry in both Hebrew and English, and my normally bubbly young teachers stood with tears in their eyes as they recalled those they knew personally. This is the reality of Israel.  Everyone here is directly connected to someone who has died for their country.

It was a relief, although in some ways a bit jarring, to move directly from the sombre mood of the day to a joyous evening of Independence festivities.  I had been told that this would be an evening that puts Purim in the shade, and this is to some degree true; partially because so much public money is poured into the celebration events, all of which are free.  And  more importantly, even though many of the events go on well into late evening, the city’s families are out in force.  No early bedtimes on Yom Haatzmaut!   It is nowhere near as boozy a night as Purim, but no less upbeat. The security presence is  both reassuring and very efficient at ensuring the flow of  huge throngs of people.  (Canada at 150 could have learned a few things from this.)

In Tel Aviv,  Independence parties go on all over town, but the main event takes place in Rabin Square, which is packed with people of all ages watching fireworks and a nostalgic stage show that intersperses folk-dancing with famous songs of each of the decades since 1948.  It is fascinating to see and hear the evolution from the Russian-style music of the 40s and 50s to music that starts to reflect a more European influence in the 70s and onward.

The evening started with a bang…
How sweet are these little girls

There are lots of flags on display all week.   Apartments,  stores, offices, buses  and cars are all decorated: some more imaginatively than others. For example, the local butcher had tiny Israeli flags placed on all his cuts of beef.  They were the smallest we saw.  And our building might take the prize for the most elongated flag in Israel.  Just look to the left of the balconies;  Hard to capture on an I-phone but very cool to see in person.

The flag runs from top to bottom -all 18 stories of it.

There are also those who wear the flag…and/or carry big blow-up blue and white hammers(?)  as below.

Or these cute girls that have lit-up bows in their hair!

Where can I get some of these!

To add to the general atmosphere of happy chaos, there were vendors everywhere selling, oddly, tins of spray foam, called “snow spray” that kids of all ages used with wild abandon to foam each other, and not infrequently, innocent bystanders. We had to take evasive action more than a few times. Why this is such a “thing” here is hard to fathom.

The next day, the party went on with ten of thousands  down at the beach to watch the annual airshow.

Those little dots behind the plane are paratroopers landing in the sea. One year they tried landing on the beach but someone got hurt, not surprising considering how packed the beaches are. We’ve never seen this before.

The family&friends barbecue is a major tradition in Israel, and all through the city we could smell  steaks , burgers, and sausages  on the flame.  We were feeling a bit sorry for ourselves since we had nowhere to go, and no balcony or barbecue, but luckily Ben came to the rescue and we got an invitation to join his friends, a charming and eclectic group of people, so all ended well.

The next day, the city was quiet…everyone was exhausted…and so were we.

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And Back to Tel Aviv

Well we are back, and my first morning here began on a sombre note.  It was Yom HaShoah and at 10:00 in the morning, sirens sounded throughout the country for two full minutes.  Cars came to a halt, even on the highways; buses pulled over, people stopped whatever they were doing, and everyone stood still in remembrance of those who perished in the Holocaust.  Mike was in Cafe Neto at the university, and as one, the students rose in respect. It is very moving to feel the collective mourning for the lost six million, and I expect a similar wash of emotion on Wednesday morning as the country stops for Yom HaZikaron, in memory of its fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism.

However in welcome contrast to these serious moments, the city is awash in spring colour.  In the short three weeks that I had been gone, spring had swept into town.  This was oddly surprising to me.  Of course, I know that spring follows winter, (except in Canada, where winter follows winter), even so it caught me off guard.  I suspect it is because winter in Tel Aviv is mild and occasionally rainy,  (and quite green), like our spring is supposed to be. I probably imagined we would leap right into a hot summer, and come to think of it, that is exactly what I packed for.  This has created a few wardrobe challenges, the only temporary downside to the whole situation.  But I can’t complain; it was a pleasure to return from Toronto, which was still  in the icy grip of a particularly awful April , to some of these lovely sights!

I especially like the purple trees, whose flowers precede their leaves. They are so lacy and delicate.

On the street where I live

Then there are the big “in your face” pops of colour:

A bit further down the road

And the shy delicate ones, that you only notice when right next to them:

I had to look twice to spot these

Even the lily pads are getting into the act:

In Rabin Square. During the day, the water flowers open to the sun.

At this time, the mood is reflective, the weather mild and sunny, and the flowers immensely cheering.  On Thursday, the mood will lift when Independence Day is celebrated with even more enthusiasm than Purim, or so I am told.  Is this possible?  I’ll let you know.

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From Tel Aviv to Toronto

We are in Toronto for a brief visit, and it is hard not to compare it to Tel Aviv from time to time.  It is a given that there is no shortage of differences between the two.  It probably seems unlikely that I would  be struck by similarities, but actually there are some.

Both cities are financial centres, both have abundant art and culture, and both have out of control housing markets; Tel Aviv arguably more so than Toronto when quality and price are weighed together.  And I would also say that the expression, “it’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there”, does not apply to either city!  If anything, it is nicer to live in Tel Aviv and Toronto (if you can afford it)  than to to be a tourist there.  It seems to me that it can take a bit of time to get to know and love both of these cities.

As a tourist destination in Canada, Toronto is usually eclipsed by Vancouver, Montreal, and  all the “great outdoors” destinations.  In Israel, Tel Aviv is often outdone by Jerusalem, and a host of other dramatic religious or historical sites. However when you live in either city, especially if you walk a lot,  you come to know the many varied and interesting neighbourhoods, as well as the quality and pace of life, that a casual visitor cannot appreciate.  When I first visited Tel Aviv, I did not think much of it.  Now I love it.  I often hear the same about Toronto.

Another random point in common…both cities have a major street named in honour of a King George: (George III for Toronto, and George V for Tel Aviv).  In Toronto, it is not such a surprise that we would have a street named after a king, since the British ran the place for a long time.  In fact, the city fathers wisely just called it King Street to cover off any future kings that might have different names.  In Tel Aviv it is a bit less obvious. They have streets named after King David , King Saul, King Solomon…and King George?  Well, originally it was called Carmel Street, but was re-named during the Mandate period, (the 30 years of British administration), in honour of George V’s jubilee year.  After independence, there was talk of changing the name back to something more Jewish, but President  Ben Zvi was adamant that it remain named King George Street, since George V was on the throne when the Balfour declaration was made.

And by coincidence, both Tel Aviv and Toronto  limit (or eliminate) private cars on their respective King streets,( and on no others as far as I know),  to allow for quicker transit.  And how is that working…?

Although Tel Aviv’s King George street is the newer of the two, (built in the 1920s)  it is narrower, with only two lanes.  And while it is a vital artery connecting Rabin Square in the north, with Allenby and the Carmel market in the south, it is fairly short, only about 1.5 kilometres. It is packed with stores, restaurants, and people, and well over a dozen different (and busy) bus lines pass through it.  Unlike the central stretch of Toronto’s King Street,  cars are sometimes permitted, but even when they are not, buses, taxis and private mini-buses can easily fill the street. Since there are only two lanes to move all the traffic, limiting private cars makes quite a lot of sense, and indeed the buses move pretty well until they inevitably meet up with regular streets and encounter the usual traffic madness that characterizes the city.

So intent is the city on keeping the bus lanes clear, they tolerate parking of delivery vehicles (and even cars) on the sidewalk!  And although you might think that limiting car traffic would encourage cyclists, scooter drivers etc. to use the road, you would be wrong…they also prefer the sidewalk!  No one really wants to dodge Israeli bus drivers. The poor pedestrian has a lot of competition, and it can be quite unnerving to walk in Tel Aviv, as I can attest.

Toronto’s King Street is older, its first stretch built initially around 1797, and even then it was  wide, two lanes each way, notwithstanding the fact  that at the time, travel was by horse and buggy.  It is a much longer road, 8 kilometres, and at both ends it meets up with Queen… (which I think is kind of charming). The “pilot” project, that now prohibits car through-traffic, covers a long stretch from Jarvis to Bathurst, applies to all hours, and includes taxis (!), except late at night.

One streetcar line runs the whole length of it, and there are one or two shorter offshoots that cover the central stretch.  It is apparently the most heavily used streetcar route in the city, although I have to say as I walked the 3 kilometres from the easternmost end to Yonge, at rush hour, I found the street to be strangely empty.  Without the usual car traffic, I expected to see more streetcars, possibly even some buses to take advantage of the newly liberated space, but that was not the case.  I found out subsequently that the TTC did not add more streetcars to the line, since they don’t have any extras! (This does seem to defeat at least part of the purpose).

But as nature abhors a vacuum,  there were a few skateboarders having a great time on the road…all that open space being an irresistible temptation!   I imagine the average Tel Aviv resident would be astounded to see such a wide street so lightly used, and it does seem suboptimal, notwithstanding the laudable goal of moving streetcars faster. On the other hand, the city has raised over $500,000 in ticket revenues from drivers who accidentally (or otherwise) flout the new rules.

So while these two King streets share a name, a pedigree, and a similar approach to cars, I feel that Tel Aviv has the better rationale, and the better outcome, in terms of maximizing use of available road space. They simply have way more surface transit, using a much smaller space.

When it comes to  the pedestrian experience however, Toronto rules…(so to speak). For the first time in four months, I have felt at ease walking.  No bikes or skateboards, (well maybe a few),  and definitely no motor-scooters, unicycles, segways, or other electrified contraptions swerving around me from behind or in front…as I walk… on the sidewalk. (Sorry Tel Aviv.) This is very calming.  Really.  And no cars or other vehicles parked on the sidewalk…in fact, not all that many people on the sidewalk either.  Not to mention that Torontonians are also much better at picking up after their dogs. This is one spacious and orderly city. Even more so in the winter, (all eight months of it), when there is no construction.

But don’t get me started on the snowstorms in April.

 

 

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The Secret Charms of Ramla

Mosques, churches and subterranean rowboats!  (Also the biggest radishes ever.)

Ramla is not a destination that jumps immediately to mind when planning a trip to Israel. In fact, a number of Israelis were puzzled when they heard we had gone there. It is however a very interesting place, and not without some eccentricities of its own. (It is in Israel after all).

We went on a field trip offered by Mike’s program at the university, so there was also an educational component to the visit.

Ramla was originally founded by one of the early Moslem Caliphs in 716 CE as the administrative capital of Palestine. It was strategically located at the intersection of the north-south road from Egypt to Syria,  and the road connecting Jerusalem with Jaffa. We were interested to learn that it was the first and only city in Israel founded by Moslems; all other cases they built on top of existing cities. Although most of what was built in the earliest years is no longer visible, there are remnants of the ancient town that are very interesting. Like Tel Aviv, it was built on sand dunes, hence its name, Ramla, which is the Arabic word for sand.

I’ll start with the part of town that has survived, virtually from its inception. The Pool of the Arches, built in 789 CE, served as an underground water reservoir for the city. It was fed by a sophisticated aqueduct, and possibly a spring below. It is  impressively large, with approximately  5000 square feet of underground lake, and it is covered with a roof supported by graceful  stone arches, like an underground cathedral.  It is a stunning piece of architecture that has survived both turmoil and earthquakes for over 1200 years. Seeing it today is not without its comic element, as the city has decided to allow people to row boats within it, to add to its appeal as a tourist attraction. Since the arches make the space too awkward for fixed oars, manoeuvering the boats requires a combination of canoeing and gondola skills, neither of which the average visitor possesses, as you can see.

Okay, how do we get out of here.

We also had a tour of the Great Mosque, which is still in use today.  It is large, open, beautiful, and…Gothic? Yes, it was originally built by the Crusaders, who took the town in 1096, and it is the best preserved example of a Crusader cathedral still in existence in Israel…even though it is now a mosque! Around 1268 when the Mamluks were in control, the steeple was re-built as a minaret, the pews were moved out…and voila!  But otherwise it is still very church-like.

The Crusaders would not be amused.

The Mamluks also built the White Tower,  a marvel of its time.  It was a minaret and, given its size, likely also a look-out tower,  forming part of a very large mosque complex that did not survive. The tower did endure however; it stands 90 feet high, and you can climb up 111 ancient steps to the very top which has a commanding view of…well… not that much.

A combination fortress/minaret

We  visited a large Franciscan church/monastery complex dating back to the 14th century, passing on our way a Greek orthodox church, even older.   In 1799, Napoleon was staying in the Franciscan hospice, and it is told that he was apparently so enraged at being woken up by the muezzin, (a mosque was in close proximity), that he got out of bed and shot him!

As we quickly learned, the town is very diverse by Israeli standards, including a mix of Arabs, both Muslim and Christian, and a large Jewish population.

In fact, even the Jewish population is also more diverse than usual, as it also includes the Karaite World Centre. This is a very small strand of Judaism that does not recognize the authority of Rabbinical Judaism,  or the Talmud, and that therefore does not follow the religious practices developed in the diaspora, which they consider to be man-made. They practise Judaism based on the plain text of what is written in the Torah/Tanach. So, just by way of example,  they would follow the commandment not to boil a kid in its mother’s milk as written in the Torah, but not the elaborate meat/dairy kosher laws that were later derived by the rabbis from that simple injunction.  For them, Jewish descent is patrilineal, as it is in the Bible;  and by the same token,  their new year starts in the spring, aligning it with  the first month in the Torah, (and with Passover);  and not in the 7th month, when our Rosh Hashana takes place… all very interesting, and new to me! (Although I have often wondered how it came to be that our New Year takes place in the 7th month.)

Another highlight of our tour was a visit to one of the loveliest open air markets I have seen in Israel, where in addition to the usual fine produce, including the biggest radishes I have ever seen, you can also buy anything else you might need, like say a fridge…or an evening gown.

Tennis ball sized radishes

 

Our final stop was for lunch in the old city, in a 700 year old building, where Samir’s restaurant now provides  an elaborate and lengthy meal of many courses, somewhat reminiscent of an Italian wedding in that it is designed to have you gain five pounds in one sitting. It was of course delicious!

Every bit as old as it looks
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Tel Aviv’s First Art Museum or…

( Dizengoff Rescued!)

I came across this little known story as a result of our visit to the Rubin museum. We were so fascinated by Rubin’s life story that I tracked down his (now out of print) autobiography in a local vintage book store.  This book, which is every bit as interesting as I thought it would be, includes an inside look at the lighter side of the founding of Tel Aviv’s first art museum.

Born in 1861, Meir Dizengoff, the driving force of this story, came to Israel from Russia where he had been trained as an engineer.  He was by all accounts a warm-hearted, ebullient and “get it done” kind of guy, who was prepared to move heaven and earth (and often did) to put his brand new city on the map. He and his wife were one of the 60 founding families who drew lots in 1908 to determine where each of them would build.  At the time, the city was just sand dunes as you can see below! He got # 16 Rothschild Blvd, and went on to become the city’s first mayor in 1921 when the city was formally recognized.

It is hard to imagine that Tel Aviv looked like this only 110 years ago

Rubin’s background is even more unusual.  Born in 1893 to an extremely poor Hassidic family in Galatz, Rumania, he was the 8th or 9th of 13 or 14 children. (He claims his mother was never quite sure!)  From an early age he was gifted at drawing, not exactly an esteemed skill in his community, where education was limited and prospects few. However, in a series of events that almost defy belief, he made his way to Israel in 1911 as a teenager, lived for a time in a tent on the dunes in Tel Aviv, went on to Paris and New York, survived the first world war in Rumania, came back to Tel Aviv, and in the process became an artist of some renown.

In 1932, when Rubin was living in Tel Aviv, Dizengoff  approached him with an idea. Since Tel Aviv now had schools, a hospital, a fire brigade, police, and even a prison (!), it was clearly time to have an “Art Museum”. His plan was that Rubin, who was by this time a reputable artist, would arrange the whole thing. Rubin thought it was a pretty improbable idea for Dizengoff to be focused on something like a museum so early in the city’s development, and he raised a number of practical objections to the concept. But no objection that Rubin came up with was enough to dissuade Dizengoff. (And this is one of the things I love about him!)

For example; where to put the museum?  No problem.  Dizengoff would donate his house!  Well then where would he live?  Dizengoff thought he could easily manage to live in a couple of rooms in the museum.  No, Rubin did not approve of that idea.  You cannot have someone eating and sleeping in a proper art museum.  Well then, after a little thought, Dizengoff had a solution for this too. He would build a small apartment for himself on the roof…and sure enough he did just that.

And what about art for the museum?  Well that was easy. They would put Rubin’s work on display to start with, and then Dizengoff would go to Europe to solicit donations of both money and artworks.  This really had Rubin concerned, because for all Dizengoff’s undoubted abilities, he knew truly nothing about art. However, Rubin had too much respect for the mayor to really argue the point. (Not to mention that he now knew he would be wasting his breath.)

In a matter of only months, the apartment was built on the roof, (times were clearly different then), and the museum opened with Rubin’s works on display. Tel Avivians were enthusiastic about this new addition to their fledgling city, a foundation was established, and money was raised for future development.

And off went Dizengoff to Europe to solicit support for the new venture.  By now, you will not be surprised to learn that he did indeed raise more money and also acquired some important art for the museum.  When he got back he told Rubin that, among other things, he had acquired two wonderful pieces of sculpture, perfect for a Jewish art museum: Michelangelo’s Moses, and Donatello’s David!   In his enthusiasm, he’d had his heart set on buying the originals, but of course had discovered that they were, most emphatically, not for sale. Not to be deterred, he kept trying and  was ultimately sold on a couple of bronze replicas, of the kind that you could pick up anywhere in Rome. Rubin had to break it to him that, sadly, these were not the sorts of things that could go into a museum, so in the end Dizengoff put them on his roof terrace, above the museum.

One night, the local police looked up, and in the moonlight they were convinced that they were seeing two thieves, or possibly murderers (!), crouching on the terrace, no doubt trying to break into the mayor’s apartment. One of them rushed upstairs and gave Moses a mighty whack on the head, breaking off his horns.  This clatter woke up Dizengoff who came out on to his terrace in his housecoat, to find his Moses in rough shape. He looked in astonishment at the policeman who sheepishly explained that he had mistaken the statue for a murderer.  But damaged or not, Dizengoff loved those statues, and both Moses and David remained on the terrace until the mayor passed away a few years later.

In 1948, it was there, at 16 Rothschild Blvd., that Israel formally declared independence. The museum remained at that site until 1971 when the modern new Tel Aviv art museum opened on King Saul Blvd.  The old museum is now known as Independence Hall. And considering his love of statues, it is only fitting that in front of the Hall is a statue of Dizengoff himself, on his horse.

 

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Levinsky Market Revisited or…

Beware the Halvah Witch!

The first time I went to the Levinsky market, I was doing a walk through Florentine, currently the most “up and coming” area in Tel Aviv. The Shuk Levinsky is located in the eastern end of the neighbourhood on, unsurprisingly, Levinsky street.  It is not a covered pedestrian market like Carmel, rather it is a few blocks, intensely crammed with small stores selling all kinds of spices, olives, coffees, dried fruits, nuts and other delicious things. Yes, and halvah. I’ll get to that.

A typical array of dried fruits and nuts

The area was first settled by Greek Jews, followed by immigrants from Iraq. Persia, and the Balkans, so the original focus was on selling ingredients for those cuisines. Today you can get pretty much any spice/ingredient you might need, if you can read Hebrew and decipher what is what.

The first time I strolled through, I could not even begin to choose from among the bewildering array of stores, many of which seemed to sell the same things. Who was who, and which should I choose?

This time, I went with Gili, one of my delightful Hebrew teachers, who promised we would go to all the best places.

We started with the only place I actually did know, and  which I have mentioned in an earlier post; 41 Levinsky, the kiosk that specializes in traditional Tel Aviv “gazoz”, sparkling water enlivened with all-organic fresh fruits, syrups, fresh herbs. Each one, custom made, almost too pretty to drink, and delicious. Even Gili was impressed.

The charming Anouk, (originally from Montreal), who makes a wonderful “gazoz”. It’s like drinking a bouquet of flowers.

Then to a little deli, fronted by a wide selection of olives, but actually specializing in such un-Israeli specialties as corned beef (!) and other cured meats.  (The Balkan influence at work.) Of course I had to buy something. It’s what I do. According to Mike, the corned beef was excellent. So were the olives.

It is amazing  how much can be fit into these little stores. Behind the olives you find a carefully chosen selection of cheeses and cured meats, and on the left side, out of view, even some wine!

From there, we went to get white coffee  ( ground coffee from beans that have only been very lightly roasted).  I had never even heard of this before, but Gili’s husband, upon hearing she would be in Shuk Levinsky, told her not to even think about coming home without it!  I went back to get some…just to try it. On balance I’d have to say that it is an acquired taste.  (And I have not acquired it.)

White coffee…who knew?

Then to the halvah store!  A clean, open, inviting store entirely devoted to halvah in every conceivable flavour…at least 20 different kinds. A little old lady stood, unsmiling, behind the counter in a little knitted cap. I asked for a small slice each of chocolate and vanilla.  Her knife hovered over the large loaf-like chocolate slab of halvah…”less”, I said, and her knife edged along …”no even less”,… the knife hovered, not moving much,…”please less”.  She gave me a look, and carved off exactly the big slice she wanted to cut the first time. And it was BIG.  The same process was repeated for the vanilla.  When we walked out of the store, I was the somewhat abashed owner of a kilo and a quarter of halvah! To put that in context, that is almost three pounds…or more to the point, around 6,000 (!) calories of trouble. (Yikes.)

oh halvah, so much halvah

What to do?  The polite Canadian in me of course paid up and left the store, scheming all the while as to how to save what is left of my waistline.  It did not take me long to decide that surely all those gorgeous (and slim!) young teachers at the Ulpan could help me out. And I was not disappointed. They rose magnificently to the occasion…and a good quarter of it vanished in a satisfactorily short time. They pronounced it a very high quality halvah, very delicious. It was a relief to know that it met their high standards.

This, by the way, is not the first time I have been snookered into buying more of something than I want, or something that I do not really need. You may remember the “boots incident”.  But usually I am charmed into the purchase, so I don’t really mind. This time there was no charm involved at all. Just steely-eyed determination.

Would you want to argue with her?

So how much halvah can one person (or even two) eat?  Not that much!  We surrendered on the weekend, and on Monday I personally delivered the rest to the Ulpan, where I am hopeful that I will never see it again.

This sign was in another store I went to previously on Allenby.  I thought it was a charming sentiment. That was before I bought three pounds of halvah.