Wind blowing, flags waving defiantly at the empty shore. Tel Aviv at no man’s hour. Well not quite – no time is no man’s hour here. There’s always someone wide awake and strolling through his moment, his peak, the best his day is going to get. Today it’s us.
The sea whacks itself into the rocks, self-harming for the fun of it, a firm punch against a jutting chin, extended angrily into the distance .The water at Mezizim beach is in a mood today, and he won’t just let it lie. We try edging in, slowly, sneakily, wave by wave, but he’s having none of it. He’s grey with muted rage, and squinting as the sun comes up. The lifeguard sleepily shouts. There’s no approaching the reproachful one today. So we retreat back out, to the colourful rug, a little haven of colour for the eye, moored on a bed of stated margarine yellow, and white tinged blue.
When the sea wakes up this livid there’s no knowing what the city will do in response. We raise a beer to the waves in solidary, then another one towards the yawning streets, rapidly stirring into the heat of another day. In true Tel Aviv style it’s ready for a confrontation and who are we to miss the fight. We pack up and leave, minds still drenched in watery salt. Good morning Tel Aviv.