Hi Martin. Truth is you're a good guy. I have nothing against you, I swear, why would I? You're a distant cousin and your life's great: Twenty-one years old, handsome, Canadian passport, rich folks, what we call a "Nice Jewish Boy." You even graduated college - Mazal Tov! I was still carrying stretchers in the army when you received your Bachelor's degree. Good for you, really. Then you decided to see the world before you get a job at Uncle Jacob's clinic. Congrats! Really.
You could have gone trekking in the Himalayas, eaten rice in Delhi, sipped wine in Marseille or a Cosmopolitan in New York City. You could have licked a stamp in Goa, rolled a joint in San Francisco, or smoked opium in Laos. The entire globe was at your fingertips with endless possibilities for adventure.
Instead you chose to come to the most crowded, sweaty place in the world. A dangerous, violent, bloodthirsty place. A poor, miserable place. Of all places, Martin, you chose to come to the planet's armpit, the universe's anus – my apartment on Tel Aviv's Frishman Street.
NB Simon's staircase. The planet's armpit
True, 10 years ago I stayed with you in Montreal for an entire week. But is it a reason to crash at my apartment for a whole month? Get a life and get out of Tel Aviv.
'Hello? It's your mother speaking'
The phone rings. My mother's on the line. "If you take Martin in for the month and show him the country, we'll forfeit your debt to us." Pardon me? Who's speaking? Tony Soprano? My own mother blackmailing me? "Well, he's a nice guy, you'll have fun. Hold on, your father wants to talk to you." Damn. "Son, Martin will stay with you next month. Byeeeee"
He arrives today. My life as I know it is ending. Got to clean the house (where's that... thingy with hairs... the broom), vacuum the rugs, move the sofa, hide the pot, buy real food. Mainly plan what I am going to do with this nuisance for a whole month. He'll be eaten alive here. I'm his only chance.
Suddenly, a mood shift; sun rays penetrate through the broken shutters, sounds of an old Hebrew song heard from a passing car.
My spirit is lifted: I, NB Simon, will be my country's ambassador. In the tradition of my forefathers, I will show him the wonders of this land, infuse Zionism into his veins, and bond him to this holiest of lands. I will turn him into a proud Sabra, a new Jew, tanned and healthy. Together we will conquer the wilderness and drain the swamps. I feel excitement, my eyes tearing… oh, well, not really an emotional outpouring. Just a burp. Damn that Falafel.
Toblerone for the aunt
Dear Martin, some preliminary advice for a safe landing:
For the past 40 years the ultimate present a foreigner can give Israelis is Toblerone chocolate. Even today when it's available on every street corner, Toblerone is what Israelis expect and most appreciate. It will win you everyone's admiration and an air of international chic. I, your generous host, expect an iPod, of course.
When the taxi driver asks you "Rotze moneh?" ("Want the meter on?") he is not really planning on taking you to visit an art gallery. He is just trying to figure out how to screw you: If you say yes, you'll find yourself driven to Tel Aviv through Eilat. If not, you'll find out for real what is the shortest distance between two points but it'll cost you 150 NIS.
Iguanas hunter
Late at night there's a knock on the door. My life's over.
"Are you NB?" a guy with a tremendous backpack asks. "Yes," I sigh, "it's me."
Martin's here. A formal handshake, a brief hug. He tells me about his flight and the cold omelet served. "You spoiled brat! What do you think I'm serving here?" I think to myself. I ask him if he's tired but he says he is too excited to fall asleep. He suggests we take a walk and see Tel Aviv at night. I hope that by "a walk" he means examining the local selection of beers at the nearest pub. No, he means a real walk. Whatever.
As we stroll down the street Martin says: "I noticed drivers here gaze vaguely, dreamingly, around like children in a bewitched forest." I explain that the reason behind that look is the Sisyphean search they are engaged in after that magical thing called "a parking space."
A magical thing: Parking spot in Tel Aviv
Yet, he isn't listening. I see him stare at a cute girl walking into a noisy pub. "Let's go in," he offers. I look at him with contempt: "Women in Tel Aviv are a tough nut to crack; you should first practice hunting poisonous iguanas," I say. He insists so we walk in and order beers. Martin takes a sip and turns his naive blue eyes towards me and asks: "So, NB, how do you ask an Israeli girl out?"
I am too old for this nonsense.
Next week: Martin learns about Tel Aviv's nightlife and NB begins to lose his patience.
Got suggestions as to where to take Martin? Want to have him over for a couple of days? Click here