Vot do you mean “gay” . . . like “happy”?

Tel Aviv’s eleventh annual Gay Pride Parade took place this afternoon.

Whilst I have nothing against gays – some of my best friends are homosexual . . . well, not really, but I do have gay friends – what exactly do they have to be so damn “proud” about? That they broke the hearts of their poor Yiddishe mamas (only partially repaired by subsequent qualification as a doctor or accountant)? That they are attracted to their own sex? After all, surely my desire to nail most members of the opposite sex in Tel Aviv should not constitute a source of “pride”?

In fact, a Straight Pride Parade would be more appropriate as, in the central area of Tel Aviv where I live, we heterosexuals – yes, mother, I am (she gets a lot of questions “already”) – if not (yet) in the minority, often feel like we are . . . being rather more “in the closet” than our “out there” gay neighbours.

I should, of course, be grateful to every gay man, for freeing up another potential woman . . . or, to quote Blackadder II, for “leav[ing] more rampant totty for us real men” (even though, recently, it hasn’t seemed quite that simple).

I bumped into a gay friend, Ido, on Rothschild Boulevard yesterday evening, whilst we were walking our dogs. His standard greeting or, rather, announcement – “The handsome Englishman!” – always rather embarrasses me. So, too, do his habits of sharing with me which passer-by he would like to f*ck – seemingly every one – and of tapping my stomach with the back of his hand whilst enquiring whether I have yet switched sides.

“Ido,” I keep reminding him, “I don’t.”

In spite of my insistence, Ido always remains strangely optimistic that I will.

I do assure him, however, that, should the unexpected occur, he will be the first to know . . . or, at least, well before my mother.

The only straight ex-Hasmo in the village: (from left) Jonny Rose, me & Mark Goldman (Tel Aviv, 15.4.11)

Yosef and the Amazing Secondhand Bookstore

There is only one person in Tel Aviv of whom I am truly envious. His name is Yosef. And he has the dream job.

Somewhat surprisingly, seeing as I have lived just ten minutes’ walk away since 1999, I only came across Yosef last month. I have walked passed 87 Allenby Street countless times over the years, but was probably usually daydreaming about some bint or other.

That particular May evening, however, my recent disillusionment with the unfairer sex allowed me to focus on Allenby’s esoteric variety of shops. And, passing a glass presentation case containing a selection of English language books, I decided to follow the inauspicious looking alleyway to its inauspicious seeming end.

The 49-year old sitting behind the counter didn’t appear particularly pleased to see me (if he saw me at all). Like the record store owner in High Fidelity, Yosef Halper, the owner of Halper’s Books, wears the world-weary look perfectly befitting the owner of a secondhand bookstore.

During that first visit, I overheard an American customer inform Yosef that he could buy a particular book “for less on the Internet.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” replied Yosef, with more than a hint of cynicism, “what is stopping you?!”

At that moment, I realised that Yosef and I would be friends.

Originating from Springfield, New Jersey, Yosef (previously James) made Aliyah in 1983, for reasons of “Zionism and the chicks”. Following his army service, he founded a Hebrew superhero comic, which didn’t have a superhero ending; but, after stumbling across Jerusalem’s Sefer ve’Sefel new and used bookstore, in 1990, suddenly understood what he really wanted to do. “I always liked wasting time in bookstores.”

Yosef, newly married, returned to the US for nine months to gather his thoughts, some cash . . . and some used books to ship back. He opened Halper’s in 1991, just before the outbreak of the first Gulf War, and 18 years later it is still there (no mean feat in Israel). Halper’s replaced a typewriter repair store, which – in typically upbeat fashion – Yosef describes as “another dying industry . . . just like books.”

Halper’s is situated between Mazeh and Montefiore Streets (a few hundred yards from Tel Aviv’s Great Synagogue), an area which has undergone significant gentrification since 1991; and, while some of the “whores and used needles” remain, reflects Yosef, the “burlesque house” opposite – with its “stripteases and porno movies” – is long gone. I get the strong sense that Yosef wishes it had stayed . . . instead of the inevitable higher rents which have followed Allenby’s cleaning-up.

Halper’s is an English language oasis in a largely Hebrew and Russian speaking desert. Of its approximately fifty thousand titles, about two-thirds are in English, making it – Yosef believes – the largest English language bookstore (new or used) in Israel. And customers can take advantage of a forty percent rebate on returned books.

The wealth of sections in Halper’s would put many used bookstores in English-speaking countries to shame – in particular, I couldn’t help but notice its extremely impressive philosophy section, with hundreds of titles for me not to choose from (I haven’t picked up a philosophy book since completing my first degree, but still like to impress [myself] with my familiarity with philosophers and their inconsequential meanderings).

I decide to test Halper’s fiction section by seeing if it has anything by my childhood next-door neighbour (in Edgeworth Crescent, Hendon), Clive Sinclair. To my astonishment, I find four titles, and snap them all up. I have also cleared Yosef’s shelves of Clive James, and am in the middle of Antony Beevor’s gripping account of (the Battle of) Stalingrad.

In addition to English-speaking Olim (immigrants), Israeli and Russian intellectuals and academics feature prominently among Halper’s customers, as do foreign workers – the many Filipino care workers in Tel Aviv, Yosef tells me, are particularly keen on romance novels – and embassy officials. Perhaps its most surprising patrons, however, are Tel Aviv’s Haredim (ultra-Orthodox), who request that Yosef conceal their purchases in black plastic bags.

Yosef with customer, a visiting philosophy professor from Boston University

In the same way that watching professional football (“soccer” to Yosef) can never match the authentic experience of Hendon FC on a miserable Tuesday evening, there is something refreshingly “real” about secondhand – as opposed to new – bookstores. And, in the several hours I have now spent in Halper’s, I have already come across many weird and wonderful characters, not least the fifty-something Israeli with the implausibly tight shirt who rolls in with a trolley-full of books scavenged from Tel Aviv’s refuse – a daily occurrence, Yosef says – and who also attempts, unsuccessfully, to flog Yosef an original photograph of Golda Meir.

Yosef’s sideline is dealing in such memorabilia, much of it pre-State. His biggest sale was of a typed reply by Albert Einstein to a request from an emissary of Lechi (the “Stern Gang”) – dispatched to the US specifically for the purpose – for financial support. The gist of Einstein’s refusal was that “If tragedy should befall the Jews in Palestine, it will be because of the British, but also because of people like you and the organization you represent.” Yosef regrets the sale of this “extremely significant letter”, to Sotheby’s, because it was “lost in the middle of a rare book auction”.

Yosef also found, in a newly acquired secondhand book, a handwritten “thank you” note from Sigmund Freud, which he returned – following a hysterical phone call from the book’s previous owner – “after sleeping on it and debating with my conscience”.

His biggest book sale – to a collector in California – was of a second edition of Anne Frank’s diary in its original Dutch, though undoubtedly his most original and prestigious was to Buckingham Palace. When the Internet order came through – for a biography of King Christian IX of Denmark (for the Palace library) – Yosef “thought someone was pulling [his] leg”, but a phone call confirmed its authenticity. And Yosef packed a few Halper’s fridge magnets for Queenie, for good measure.

Internet trade has, however, according to Yosef, become the victim of its own success – the Web has made it far simpler to locate books these days, with the consequence that many titles which might previously have been considered “rare” are no longer.

Of course, in running a retail business in Israel – especially a secondhand one – Yosef has to put up with untold shtiklach (Yiddish for “idiosyncrasies”). “Some customers are unwilling to pay for books which they realise have been found. And when a book, in good condition, is marked at forty shekels, I get people arguing that they ‘can get it new at Steimatzky’s for sixty.’ And then there are those who say ‘Look, this book is marked a dollar fifty!’ What they forget to mention is that it is rare, out of print, and was marked that in 1950!”

Halper’s obtains a large part of its stock from estates of the deceased, including from, in the past, those of Moshe Dayan and murdered Knesset member Rechavam Ze’evi. And it acquired much of former President Chaim Herzog’s library, too, from an alte zachen (“old things”) cart that happened to roll past 87 Allenby.

On another occasion, Yosef was called to clear the impressive library of a bankrupted lawyer, whose name he wasn’t told. An inspection of the books revealed that many had been purchased from Halper’s. The lawyer visited the store shortly afterwards, seeing his former collection on Yosef’s shelves. But neither uttered a word about it.

Amongst Halper’s more famous clientele are artist Menashe Kadishman, musician Kobi Oz, and political commentator Aluf Benn. Amongst its more infamous is ex-President Moshe Katzav – about to stand trial for rape – a collector of Judaica (especially Passover Haggadot) . . . though, as Yosef remarks drily, “I guess he has other worries right now”. Like Katzav’s relationship with his former office, that with Halper’s also ended in acrimony, when Yosef – not unreasonably – eventually sold books put aside by Katzav, but which he did not collect. “He was a nice guy,” recalls Yosef, “if a little brusque.”

Halper’s, Yosef observes, is “a pleasant way to make a very modest income.” If he ever tries a desk job, he will understand my envy. (And, with the publication of this post, I can surely now safely own up that Stuey is the one responsible for the chewed spines on his lower shelves!)

Above all else, what amazes me most about Halper’s – if you will excuse my Zionist idealism – is the wealth of English language culture and learning that it reveals in this tiny, miraculous Middle Eastern country . . . though we are, I suppose, the “People of the Book”.

halpbook@netvision.net.il, (03) 629 9710.

The Buyer’s a Freier: Shopping, Israel-Style

Most people will be familiar with the doctrine “Let the buyer beware” (or, for those who didn’t attend a crap school, Caveat emptor). Retailers in Israel, however, have significantly extended the scope of the doctrine and renamed it “The buyer is a freier” (Yiddish-derived Hebrew for “sucker”).

I am destined never to get fit. After getting into working out for the first time in my life, my local gym, on Sheinkin Street, recently closed following a serious fire. Apparently, a female member (who said “of course”?!) – whose time might have been better spent on mental exercises – left her towel on the sauna heater.

Now, knowing Israel and its natives as I do, approximately a week after the conflagration – and with no sign of the gym reopening – I decided, to be on the safe side, to cancel the direct debit (after notifying the gym). And, sure enough, it continued collecting payments from those who hadn’t.

The gym reopened last week, when I phoned to renew my membership. “Naturally,” I informed the irritatingly camp manager Gidi, “I expect to be credited with the one month I had frozen” (earlier in the year, whilst I was abroad).

“Of course not,” he squeaked, “you cancelled the contract.”

I started explaining the contractual principles of consideration and frustration to him – that, following the fire, I was receiving absolutely zilch for my payments, and that the contract had now become impossible to perform.

When, however, the squeaking started up again – and sensing the onset of a rage which might have been wrongly perceived as homo-, rather than “no one can really be this camp-”, phobic – I requested the details of the gym owner.

Eddie was an altogether more serious proposition. And, sitting opposite him in his office, I tried a less legalistic tack, testing whether an Israeli could comprehend the principle that “The customer is always right.” What works in Brent Cross, however, will not necessarily on Sheinkin. And Eddie merely added insult to injury by stating that I would also have to pay a fresh joining fee.

It is as if the whole Israeli retail industry is run on the principles of the shuk (market). It is quite common in these parts, even in large chain stores, to haggle over prices. And, on Thursday, my kiosk friend Avi described the bewilderment of a Fifth Avenue (New York) shop assistant, who – after Avi had purchased a pair of shoes – could not comprehend why he was demanding a gratis pair of socks and/or shoe polish.

The Israeli attitude towards customers has caused me to “lose it” on several occasions since my Aliyah (and I relate such not out of pride, but in the interests of authenticity) . . .

I lost my Israeli consumer ‘virginity’ towards the end of the 1990s on a well-deserving Dizengoff Street kiosk owner, who refused to believe – me . . . an Englishman! – that The Jerusalem Post I had purchased from him merely an hour earlier had its TV guide section missing.

His temerity so incensed me that I picked up another copy and ran for it. He gave chase, but I ended up losing him in the garden of some side street (for many months following, however, I had to take detours to avoid passing him).

Then, last year, in two separate incidents on King George Street – and provoked by unbelievable rudeness – I called a hardware store owner a “Polani” (Pole), and hurled a frozen yogurt back at the woman who had only just served it to me.

You are probably thinking that I need to attend anger management classes. And perhaps I do. But when you have to deal with such attitudes on a daily basis, the odd outburst is inevitable for all but the most placid of souls (and I have never been described as that).

I leave my favourite Israeli shopping story, however, till last. Walking out of a shop on Jerusalem’s Ben Yehuda Street, and inspecting the roll of fax paper that he had just purchased, my cousin Marc realised that it was the wrong size.

Making an immediate about-turn, and politely requesting that the shop owner exchange it for the correct one, he was greeted with the now legendary reply, “Where do you think you are . . . in America?!”

One thing is for sure – the term “retail therapy” does not have its origins in Israel.

T.A. Woman: Feeling a Lemon in the Big Orange

“Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light, or just another lost angel . . . City of Night” (L.A. Woman, The Doors, 1971)

City of Night, the novel from which Jim Morrison took the above lyric, describes a sordid world of sexual perversion. Morrison translated it to Los Angeles, but, today, he might just as easily have substituted it with Tel Aviv (nicknamed “the Big Orange”).

I often get asked – especially by the long in servitude, sure that the single’s “grass” is “greener” – what the T.A. singles scene is like.

“Sodom and Gomorrah,” I reply.

Now, anybody who knows me – or, indeed, who follows melchett mike – will know that, whilst I am no Warren Beatty, I am no prude either. Having grown up in the ‘ghettos’ of North-West London, however, I am also not used to Jewish women having sex on the first date, or in nightclub toilets, both commonplace in Tel Aviv. And if the religious – the genuine ones (not those Charedim [ultra-Orthodox] seen kerb-crawling around Ramat Gan at night) – have got anything right, it is their emphasis on sexual modesty and restraint.

I have blogged about both Israelis in general, and the male of the species, but am regularly asked when I am going to address the fairer sex (if ever there was a misnomer!) Having to tackle them on dates, rather than just paper, I think that, subconsciously, I have been putting it off. I also understand no more about them – and, oddly, perhaps even less – than when I first made Aliyah, over 13 years ago.

A recent experience, however, has persuaded me to break my silence. And if it comes across as cynical . . . that’s because it is.

An Israeli acquaintance – who is actually married to an English girl (he had more sense) – recently suggested that I meet his neighbour, a 35-year old divorced mother of one. He said “S” was nice, attractive, down to earth, and spoke good English.

“Why not?” I replied.

S and I had a pleasant chat on the phone, when I realised that I had seen her in the neighbourhood. We even attended the same party recently, and I was pleased to hear that she, like me, was disillusioned with such gatherings, where you can’t get into the toilets for people doing drugs or having sex.

I found S’s frankness refreshing – she confided how miserable she had been on Seder [Passover] night, which she spent with a happily married couple, and how her ex-husband, who she divorced, has now found someone “younger and with bigger tits”.

I was excited to meet S, which we did the following morning, in my “Shabbes café”. And it was most enjoyable, even prompting me to mention her in my post later that afternoon. True, S spoke almost entirely about herself – T.A. Woman can be quite self-obsessed – but we sat for an hour and a half, and she opened up in a way that a woman wouldn’t (or so one would think) on a first date, unless she was feeling extremely comfortable.

S spoke freely about sex – not a topic I generally bring up on first dates – blaming the absence and quality of it for the break-up of her marriage and most recent relationship respectively, and even mentioning that her octogenarian grandmother was still addicted to it. She also complained bitterly about the behavior of T.A. Man, describing how many will only have sex on their living room sofas, to make it crystal clear to T.A. Woman that she will not be spending the night.

S mentioned that she had been in therapy for ten years, but I figured that she was just too nice for the f*ck-up that is the T.A. singles scene. I walked S home, and we arranged to go out again the following Wednesday evening.

When, however, S neither answered Sunday’s post-first date “courtesy call”, nor phoned back, I started to smell a rat. And when she didn’t answer my sms on the Tuesday, enquiring whether we were still on for the following evening, the rat started to reek. I called her on Wednesday too. But, again, no reply.

Neither shrinking violet nor freier (Yiddish-derived Hebrew for “sucker”), I sent her an sms that evening, stating “U could have just said u r not interested. So much easier… and nicer.”

29 minutes later, I received a reply, “Truely sorry…”

While S could do with losing some pounds – or, instead, adding some inches to her next pair of Levi’s – she is both tall and pretty, and the majority of men most definitely “would” . . .

But I can handle rejection (even with a spelling mistake) – one of the few pep talks on such matters that my late father gave me was that not all women will want me (how right he was!) – but why all the provocative sex talk? And why agree to a second date? And then the subsequent disappearing act, leaving me in limbo for the Wednesday evening . . .

Such behavior is not uncommon on the thirties and forties T.A. singles scene, and Israeli friends could not begin to comprehend why it got me so worked up.

But, even if it means remaining naïve, I will never get used to it.

Sometimes, I think that I am just not assertive enough. For instance, I usually ask a woman where she would like to go on a date . . . but most Israeli women just want the man to make the decisions for them. There is also the theory that, unless the man “makes a move” – however low on the “bases” – on the first date, the Israeli woman will conclude that he is just not interested (how different from North-West London’s finest!)

Whilst it is not uncommon, therefore, to hear the single Israeli woman – especially T.A. Woman (everything is more extreme in the Big Orange) – complain about the chauvinistic behaviour of her male compatriots, and claim that she longs for a “real gentleman”, she is so accustomed to such behaviour that she has difficulty recognising, understanding, and/or dealing with anything different. Indeed, she is like the abused child who can only return to abusive relationships in adulthood.

Anyway, next time, S, save the sex talk for the second date (or a dirty telephone conversation). And remember, everyone is deserving of respect . . . even if you don’t want to f*ck them.

“Never saw a woman so alone . . . so alone” (L.A. Woman)

Who the f*ck asked you?! (The Israeli, Part II)

I am forced out of the writer’s block – nothing to do with all the matzo I have been consuming this Passover – afflicting me recently by “Opinionated” Avi (who has already received mention on melchett mike: see The Israeli).

Yesterday morning, Avi, over hafuch (latte) at ‘our’ kiosk on Rothschild Boulevard, proceeded to tell me, my friend Dalia, and in fact everyone at the kiosk – Avi can add hardness of hearing to a long list of shortcomings – that, from a purely aesthetic point of view, I am “no metzia” (Yiddish for “bargain” or “real find”), and that, basically, I should take the first girl that will have me. She would be happy, he bellowed, to take a lawyer – and relative financial security – over good looks. Well, thanks mate!

Now this advice was not sought, you understand. And especially not from Avi, who is in his fifties, single, unemployed (though he claims to trade stocks from home), and wears jeans that would comfortably house a (plumpish) family of four. In fact, Avi’s selling point on dates is that he doesn’t live with his mother.

Two Saturday mornings ago, in Ha’Tachtit – our “Shabbes café” – Avi was “shooting off” to me and another kiosk friend, Yuval, about the reasons for the collapse of the British Pound. In a sequence reminiscent of the wonderful “movie line” scene in Annie Hall – when Woody brings out the Canadian media theorist, Marshal McLuhan, to confront an idiot pontificating about his work – another opinionated native appeared from nowhere, telling Avi that he had no idea what he was talking about. Yuval and I wanted to kiss him!

In a desperate attempt to save face – and knowing full well that the heroic stranger would never collect – Avi offered to bet with him on the performance of the Pound over the next twelve months. But the damage had been done, leaving Yuval and me sniggering like a pair of naughty schoolboys.

But Avi is merely an extreme (and somewhat unfortunate) case. Everyone here loves to give advice. Even Yuval, who is relatively laid back for “the species”, often begins sentences with “Ata yodeya ma ha’ba’aya shelcha . . .” (“You know what your problem is . . .”) But, as I keep reminding him, “I didn’t f*cking ask!”

Israelis like to think of themselves as psychologists, or, at the very least, life coaches. And they don’t let the lack of any formal training get in the way. Five and a half million dysfunctional Jews telling each other how to live!

I have just returned from a “Shabbes café” date with a woman (a cool one, for once) who complained how one particular guy – sitting a few tables away (it is all very incestuous in this ‘village’ of central Tel Aviv) – keeps telling her “At tzricha lizrom” (“You need to [go with the] flow”). As a woman of some substance, she finds it infuriating advice from a loser of not much. (On a first date, I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her that it also sounds suspiciously like doublespeak for “Why won’t you let me get me into your knickers?”)

Yet another kiosk friend, Yossi, a gay Moroccan, would regularly assault me with “Look at yourself – a lawyer . . . and that’s how you dress?! And you’re so out of shape . . . join the gym!” My mother, who has never met Yossi, loves him of course . . . having been telling me those things for years. Anyway, I did join the gym, just to shut Yossi up . . . but now he tells me what to do with my dogs! (“Little” Stuey got his own back last week, pissing on Yossi’s carpet. Now, I don’t know if you have ever seen a homosexual after a dog has urinated on his favourite rug . . .)

Anyway, in my long and patient search for the future “Mrs. Isaacson”, I am back on JDate, a cyber version of S&M . . . for singlemasochistic Jews. And it ain’t pleasant, I can tell you. In the process of arranging to just talk on the phone with a certain “Ronit” – no straightforward task, as she doesn’t give out even her mobile number (not, at least, until she has seen bank details and a salary slip) – I received an email from her, stating that “being with someone who smokes, even only occasionally, is really not an option”.

“38 and single,” I wrote back, “but you won’t give a chance to someone who likes a cigarette with his beer? Well, that really makes sense!”

I’ll let you know Ronit’s reply. Though don’t hold your breath.

What we Israelis can learn from the Islanders (Caribbean Trip, Week 2)

“When da plane full, dare nut enough room fer all de bags.”

We landed in Barbados, on Friday evening, only to discover that my suitcase (as well as numerous others) hadn’t made the flight from Antigua. “Lost Baggage” staff at the Liat Airlines counter merely shrugged their shoulders. I shouldn’t have assumed that my case would be on the next flight (there are several a day), either. “It should get ere in a coupla days.” When I queried as to what I was supposed to wear in the interim, they just chuckled. “Clothes cheap on da island.” And I would be entitled to 50 Bajan [=25 US] Dollars to cover the cost (of a pair of flip flops, perhaps). Anyway, they had absolutely no idea why I was getting so worked up.

I was pulling my hair out, too – during the lunch break of the Antigua Test (which, incidentally, was great) – having to queue twenty minutes for a sandwich . . . when, on entering the shop, I was third in line. And, when I finally was served, the Subway employee, with excrutiating slowness, arranged the tomatoes, cucumbers, and olives, etc, as if she was planning to enter her yeasty work of art to the Tate Modern (Damien and Tracey, that’s my idea!)

As I have now learned, however, trying to tell a Caribbean Islander that you are in a hurry is about as effective as informing an Israeli that you respond better to politeness. The stereotype of the Islanders – portrayed memorably in a British TV ad for Malibu rum (“Imagine if we Caribbeans took life as seriously as the rest of the world”) – is remarkably accurate. One informed me, yesterday, that the supermarket was a “five to ten minute walk” away. It took me no more than a minute and a half.

Enjoying the important thing in life (last Tuesday)

It has taken me over a week to adapt, but I am starting to appreciate the huge benefits of such a laid-back approach to life. These people just don’t get stressed about anything. They don’t care how much you earn, paid for your house, or tip, about your relationship with your God (and which of His commandments you choose to observe), or whether you are right, left, straight, gay, or a little bit of both. They exhibit a wonderful simplicity and seamlessness, not seeming to give a toss (excuse the puns) about much other than cricket . . . and, even then, not in the aggressive, jingoistic way that the English, for example, ‘enjoy’ their sport.

I tried to imagine a similar scenario to the airport one involving Israelis (somewhat tragically, I am often informed that my behavior is getting me extremely close to becoming a ‘real’ one) . . . The testosterone-challenged (too much) males of the species would have referred Liat staff to the private parts of their mothers (“Koos ima shelachem”), whilst their hysterical female mating partners would have been feigning to pass out and begging their men to calm down, all the while fanning themselves with a copy of Yediot (the closest Israeli equivalent of the British Sun ‘newspaper’ . . . but without the tits [if you exclude Bibi and Katzav]).

In another week and a half, I will be back in Tel Aviv, with fellow Israelis breathing down my neck as I withdraw cash from the ATM, attempting to push in front of me in every imaginable excuse for a queue, and generally being aggressive and discourteous. I am currently involved in a building project, and hearing how my partners address our architects and other hired professionals, during our weekly meetings, makes even this lawyer shudder.

So, what is it about Israelis?

We think too much. We question too much. We agonise too much. We say too much (often when it doesn’t concern us). We kvetch (complain) too much. We argue too much. We are over-cynical. And we are certainly too competitive and covetous. Woody Allen sums it up best, when he says that “Jews are just like everyone else . . . only more so.” And I would take that one step further: “Israelis are just like Jews . . . only more so.”

My (almost anti-Semitic sounding) view is that there are just too many Jews squeezed into so tiny a land mass. It often feels as if you are living amongst several million Sigmund Freuds, Alan Sugars, and Woody Allens (with several thousand Bernie Madoffs thrown in for bad measure). And, sometimes, the sense of suffocation causes me to fantasise about taking my leave, not just from Israel, but from Jewish life in general (whilst, at the same time, recognising that I probably wouldn’t last too long in such self-imposed exile).

True, the safety issues that Israelis have to contend with are rather more existential than those relating to bowlers’ run-ups. We can’t, however, perpetually use the matzav (security “situation”) to excuse our behavior, much of which is caused, not by our lovely Arab neighbours, but by our own greed, jealousy of, and lack of respect and tolerance for, our fellow compatriots and coreligionists (not to mention others).

I love my Land, and Israelis have many qualities, not least of which are a candour and straightforwardness not exhibited by my other compatriots, the British. At last week’s Test, England cricket supporters unfailingly greeted every outspoken utterance of flamboyant, exuberant West Indies fans with sycophantic laughter, which – amongst themselves (and on their own “patch”) – would undoubtedly, instead, have taken the form of racial slurs and epithets. But, there I am, being cynical again.

We angst-ridden Israelis (and Jews), with some justification, are always worried about what might happen tomorrow. And we are so busy competing and achieving, that we have forgotten (if we ever really knew) how – like the Caribbean Islanders – to “live the now” . . . and just be.

Airstrike on Gaza: Israel’s Right of Self-Defence

Here we go again.

On returning home from my jog on Tel Aviv beach, this morning, I turned on Sky News, only to be greeted by the sound of sirens and a hysterical (understandably) Palestinian giving an eyewitness account of events in Gaza. Israel had responded, finally, to the months of provocation from Hamas and its proxies, to the daily barrage of rockets fired at its civilian population. Eighty hit on Wednesday alone.

The sadly predictable emphasis of Sky‘s reporting was on the “fact” that the airstrikes came as Gaza’s children were leaving school (I would have liked school days finishing around 11 in the morning). I didn’t see any such intensive “Breaking News” flashes on Sky (or other networks) covering the daily barrages on Sderot or Ashkelon, or emphasizing the fact that, for months, Israeli children in the worst-affected areas have hardly seen the light of day, being forced to remain in shelters and reinforced rooms. Sadly, we have become accustomed to such uneven coverage, and most of us expect little more.

Israel’s actions, this morning, followed intense debate, both governmental and public, on how to best respond to this continuing, untenable situation. Even the doveish, left-wing intellectuals of Israel’s Meretz party called for military action on Thursday, something virtually unheard of. And the Egyptian Foreign Minister, too, has stated that Hamas had received enough warnings to put a stop to the rocket fire.

Now, the media will wheel out all the usual suspects – the “Pinters” (though, I expect, not Harold) and “Galloways” (I can dream, can’t I?!) – who will trot out the usual crap about the deliberate and indiscriminate targeting of women and children, and the disproportionate response of the “mighty Israel” (if you have, and are interested in challenging, such a notion, an interesting exercise involves taking a look at a map of the Middle East . . . and not one received from one of those Friends of Palestine-type “charities”, many of which are covers that would be more aptly named Give Your Hard-Earned Cash to Help Kill Israelis). From their silence during the bombardment of Israel, day in, day out, for months, are we to assume that they considered that legitimate?

Israel, in response, will have to mobilize its (usually hopeless) spokesmen to defend its actions.

If we can trust the latest pronouncements by Hamas, today’s death toll is high. And it is a tragedy that innocent people will, undoubtedly, have been killed. But, be in no doubt, Israel is in a permanent state of war with Hamas, a neighbouring “government” whose raison d’être is to destroy it. An inevitable consequence of every war is that innocents suffer. To buy into the inevitable Hamas (and general Arab) propaganda, that Israel deliberately and indiscriminately targeted innocent civilians, is for the dimwitted and/or those with their anti-Israel/America/Britain/Jewish/Christian/western/democratic (delete as appropriate . . . though you might choose to keep them all) agenda(s).

To Hamas, the blood of Palestinians is only a little less cheap than that of Israelis. And it has been playing Russian roulette with the lives of Gazans for far too long now. Of course, the leaders of Hamas won’t poke their grubby little heads above the parapet, any more than that coward Nasrallah did in Lebanon in 2006 (he spent the entire war in hiding). But Gazans are responsible for choosing those leaders or, at least, for allowing them to remain in office.

Anyway, it is all very depressing. I, for one, certainly don’t rejoice in the bloodshed or jingoistic notions of revenge.

And it is weird, too – I am writing this on my laptop in a Tel Aviv café, struggling to concentrate through all the loud conversation and laughter (Israelis are a noisy bunch), when less than 45 miles down the Mediterranean coast there is death and destruction.

One thing is for sure, though – neither the British government or public, nor any other, would have tolerated such a situation on its border for so long. That Israel has done so is testament to its democracy, humanity and ethics (even in spite of Wednesday’s eighty rockets, Israel reopened crossings into Gaza on Thursday, to alleviate its worsening humanitarian situation).

That I should even have to write all of this is an indication of the different standards by which the world judges and treats Israel – as I always say (and this one’s mine): like Israelis and their tea, the world doesn’t like its Jews strong.

Unlike seventy years ago, however, we can defend ourselves now. And we will.

Parking Shields: Careers for UK Graduates in Tel Aviv

Tel Avivians spend more time looking for car parking spaces than thinking about sex.

Even though this fact never applied to me – and perhaps not feeling comfortable as the exception to the rule – I recently bought a space.

That space (and this one is true) is worth more than my ex girlfriend’s three room apartment in Be’er Sheva. Even though that might have something to do with the trade around my space being neither sex nor narcotics – and the common language being comprehensible to people other than compatriots of Borat – you get the point . . . parking in Tel Aviv is a nightmare.

It is quite common for residents, returning home from work, to spend 30 minutes plus driving round and round in silent (and sometimes not so silent) prayer. The situation is so bad that the Tel Aviv Municipality, not known for its charity or mercy, even allows residents to request the cancellation of up to two parking tickets a year.

The single most irritating thing in this country (and there is stiff competition) is the saving of parking spaces. Imagine suddenly finding a space, after ages of fruitless circling, only to discover that there is some plonker (“My friend is just coming”) standing in it.

I’d love to see them try and pull something like that in South London.

My first instinct is always to run them over. Then reason sets in. And there’s the rub . . . that Jews, even of the Israeli variety, just know that they would have to be bloody unlucky to find one of their brethren willing (and able) to resort to physical violence. Hence, the ridiculously high levels of chutzpah in Israel.

Now here’s a great business idea for the enterprising British graduate . . .

Why volunteer as a “human shield” for Palestinians – Gaza is a horrible place to be after the comforts of university life – when you can live in Tel Aviv, making money saving parking spaces for beleaguered local drivers?

Cash considerations aside, you wouldn’t be helping save the homes of suicide bombers . . . and you’d stand a far better chance standing in the way of a 1989 Fiat Punto than a spanking new Caterpillar bulldozer.

Tomorrow

I took the day off work today. But I wish I hadn’t. It’s been a disaster. And it’s still not evening . . .

7:05 am: Dexxy and Stuey have slept enough. They decide that I have too. Little bastards.

7:15 am: Take them down for their walk. Huge clogs of soiled toilet paper are still spewing forth, excrementally, from the drain at the side of our building. It seems there cannot be a backside in Greater Tel Aviv left unrepresented.

7:55 am: Sit down for coffee at my “local”. I feel the women at the next table crowding me. Israelis do that. You are at the cash machine, and invariably ‘feel’ the person standing behind you. They have no concept of personal space over here. I pull a face, and feel I’ve made my point.

10:20 am: Moshe “the thieving plumber” (can there be a better example of a tautology?) comes to unblock the drain. He immediately says he’ll need an extra 100 shekels to clean up the toilet paper that has already flowed out of it (he must have thought, when providing his original quote, that we wouldn’t possibly want him removing so worthy a candidate for the Tel Aviv Museum of Art).

10:30 am: Moshe phones from downstairs. The festering cesspit greeting his arrival was obviously insufficient giveaway . . . he’ll need a further 100 shekels, because the blockage is “particularly bad”.

11 am: My induction to the gym. I joined on Friday, after my gay friend, Yossi, told me that I had to get my act together. Buying a new wardrobe and losing my keress [Hebrew for beer belly] was the gist of it. I am not doing the tight sleeveless vest and leather cap thing, so it was the gym or nothing. But I hate the places. The introductory circuit is thoroughly humiliating. As he watches my face get pinker with every pitiful exertion, the instructor downgrades the dumbbells from Macho Black to Girlie Pink. I want to tell Boris to f*ck off back to Uzbekistan. He informs me he’s the Israeli national wrestling champion. I decide not to.

1:30 pm: Head off with Dexx and Stu to MASH, to watch the satellite broadcast of Histon Town (it’s actually a village vs Leeds United, in the 2nd round of the FA Cup (the reason I took the day off).

1:55pm: Receive a text message from the pub’s owner, informing me that – in spite of the game having been advertised on the MASH website – it’s not being shown. When Roy, the most intelligent Tel Aviv White (no distinction in itself), phones to complain (I can become irrational during such conversations), he is informed that it is actually our fault for not having phoned to check yesterday. “Sorry” is not a word in the local consumer industry lexicon.

4 pm: My beloved Leeds United has lost, for the first time in its history, to a team from outside the Football League. And to a goal by a postman. If anybody knows where Histon is, will they please bloody tell me (what I do know is that it has a population of under 4,500, compared to the over 715,000 in Leeds).

4:10 pm: City, my last hope for rescuing the day, go one-nil down to United in the Manchester derby, which I am watching at the home of “Mad” Eddie (see The Tel Aviv Whites). Most Leeds fans would point Indian intelligence officers, searching for evil perpetrators, in the direction of Old Trafford rather than Pakistan.

5:16 pm: Injury time. City still losing. Eddie declares that he’ll let Dexxy and Stuey “do a Monica” on him – the “eat one’s hat” idiom obviously never reached Yorkshire – should City equalise.

5:17 pm: United’s goalkeeper makes a great point-blank save, denying City at the death. My last hope of a smile today vanishes. Eddie, just inches away from becoming “Mad, I Did Not Have Sex With Those Dogs” Eddie, breathes a huge sigh of relief (so do Dexxy and Stuey . . . they’d have had a good case for cruelty to animals).

On the bright side, I met a lovely woman yesterday evening, at the opening party for a new theatrical production of Oliver Twist (at least Fagin shouldn’t be portrayed too unkindly here), the latest project of legendary Israeli film director, Menachem Golan.

But I think I’ll call her tomorrow.

Gever Gever*: The Israeli Male

In most societies, for a man to be referred to by a woman as a chnun – the Hebrew for geek/nerd (rhymes with ‘fun’, in a silly northern English accent) – would generally be considered a grave and emasculating insult.

When my ex, Nurit, used to refer to me as such, regularly – sometimes in public, to amuse her friends (I liked that) – I would take it badly. No woman in the UK even nearly called me that. I mean I am just not. Okay, I wear glasses, and don’t do drugs or ride a Harley, and I call my mother a little too often . . . but I am into Dylan and punk and footie (I am sure I could think of more things, given time). But when the next woman (and the one after that) confirmed Nurit’s assessment, it made me start to think that perhaps I am just not the wild man that I had once considered myself.

It then started to dawn on me that, to these women, this was not an insult. Far from it. They cherished their chnun, a male who could show emotions other than through, inter alia, greeting another male with a bear-hug so tight that he feels his ribcage being crushed, or a handshake consisting of a vertical slap and then shake so strong that he has the sensation that his eyeballs are being forced out of their sockets.

Straight Israeli men also often greet each other with a kiss, something virtually unheard of where I come from. But such demonstrative displays – interestingly, performed most by the very types who I get into regular trouble for referring to as “monkeys” (“apes” for the even more challenged) – clearly don’t run very deep, perhaps being the remnant of some macho army bonding thing. And they tend to be the very limit of your average Israeli man’s emotional range.

Witnessing the behaviour of an Israeli male around an attractive female is somewhat akin to watching one of those National Geographic documentaries on baboon mating rituals in Gabon. Take the manager of ‘my’ café/kiosk, on Rothschild Boulevard, for instance. I have always found him nothing less than ungracious and thoroughly unpleasant. But, come an attractive woman, and he miraculously transforms into a gushing nincompoop.

For a general lack of etiquette, Israeli men have few peers. I will never forget having garinim (sunflower seeds) spat all over my lap for 90 minutes, by a Beitar (of course) football fan, during a match in Jerusalem. And the guy knew full well what he was doing (I decided to say shtum, however, rather than later have to recount words similar to those of Woody Allen’s character in Play It Again Sam: “Some guys were getting tough with Julie. I had to teach them a lesson. I snapped my chin down onto some guy’s fist and hit another one in the knee with my nose.”)

An interesting anthropological exercise involves observing groups of Israeli couples in a restaurant. In most other countries, there tends to be some cross-gender interaction. In such situations here, however, the males and females often chat amongst themselves, Goodfellas style, the former usually about football, sex, and/or – if they are a little more sophisticated – property (one often even sees tables with the men all seated at one end and the women all at the other). It’s as if the men are saying to their lady folk “You wouldn’t understand”. Of course, they are right – they wouldn’t – but Israeli men don’t even go through the pretence.

Whatever issues I have with Israeli women (and they are not few), the men here have a far better deal than the women. Moreover, the reason Israeli women behave in the way that they do (and I will get onto that, I hope, in the not too distant future) is because they have had to bear the brunt of Israeli men for all of their adult lives (though the men, in turn, can reasonably point to the fact that, unlike most normal teenagers – who, following high school, go off to party at university for three years – they are thrust into the IDF [but melchett mike is not about fairness]).

There is a popular notion that all Englishmen are like Hugh Grant (in his non-Sunset Boulevard persona). This is not true. While an Englishman might know how to hold his knife and fork correctly, place him in a football ground, in front of 22 men chasing a pig’s bladder, and you will soon see how civilised he is (this experiment produces even more interesting results if you first let him spend a couple of hours in a public house).

If two Englishmen have a disagreement, they will usually settle it by knocking the living daylights out of each other. Over here, on the other hand, fists are rarely raised. I once witnessed a road rage incident in downtown Jerusalem, which consisted of one man holding another in a headlock for an entire 15 minutes, not wanting to throw a punch. The scene took me back to Jewish Sunday league football in England, where squabbling opponents would trade ‘handbags’ (at twenty paces), not truly desiring to hurt one other.

Cut through all the bluff and posturing, therefore, and inside your average Israeli man you will ultimately find a “nice Jewish boy”.

* Gever is Hebrew for male. Israeli men commonly greet each other with this word, a more macho version of the English man (as in “Hey, man”). Gever Gever (see title) is an expression used, often sarcastically, to describe machismo.