Time travel – it doesn’t exist apparently. But here in the swamp-like sticky melting pot of Tel Aviv, the heat blends old memories together with new, fusing holidays, day trips and long term stays into one long never-ending story with an ever-changing ending.
It sticks to the stray cats mincing across roofs, and melds itself to sweaty faces, winning its battle again and again with the omnipresent bottle of water. It weaves its way into Tel Aviv’s far from tuneful singing voice, sending the Shuk stall owners crazy as they wipe hot foreheads and play Eyal Golan again and again, from sunrise right up until the street cleaners arrive at closing time, with their loaded buckets of soapy water, soon to be sent spinning from Allenby down to the beach, drenching everyone in its path.
As the song starts again for the fortieth time, I know with utter certainty that should I ever hear this song again, in a different place, a different life, I’ll be instantly transported right back to right here, this very spot in the hot, hot heart of the city. It’s cheating time, this method of present day nostalgia – time travelling to the very moment you’re in. One of these days today will just be a sweet memory – and here in Tel Aviv, it might as well be today.