“The mass of men lead a life of quiet desperation.”

Or in our case. Just desperation.

Trigger warning: The following entry has nothing to do with anything, and is there just to be there. I call this Anna’s-silver-spoon-syndrome. For more info:


I recently realized that the Brits have their base in southern Cyprus. It hit me like a wrecking ball. British Forces Cyprus or BFC  – (points stick at map) – happens to be an hour or so away. By plane that is. We not savages. 

OK Action. Yalla Habibti!

As a vetted member of the softer sex, I’m both spoiled and fortunate enough to be reasonably well connected. In accordance with this, two of my British Officer friends (pinky up) flew down to Jaffa on December 19. Beyond question, I’m glad they did. The events of the following eight hours on December 19, have undeniably made me into a more respectable, thriving human being. 

No doubt. 

Please sense the sarcasm now. 

Let’s paint the picture. Set the scene. It is dark. We are in Jaffa. Drunk. Talking rubbish. Pointing and choking. All very touche. Touche indeed…

And to an untrained eye, it would seem, (and would not at all be a stretch to denote), that that particular steak joint, on that particular evening of December 19, not only enjoyed our spectacle, but actively – and purposefully incentivised it, subsidized it even. 

And what’s not to incentivise?

Impaired foreigners with hair braids?

I’ll take four!

In any case, they were incredibly hospitable and caring. Our lovely waitress soon joined our shot taking escapade – most likely to stop us form ourselves – but still: save the furniture she did. Cutlery and customers remained unharmed. Physically wise. Psychologically – most likely not, but whatevs – you can’t have it all.  

14 Tequilla Shots, two meat platters, six sides and 18 beers later  – “on the house” later – we stumble out in search of lights. Shisha and lights. It seemed profound. It wasn’t. We plagued a different place. (Enter choir): “On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me: six gin and tonics, three cosmo-polit-ns..nine gold star beerhhsss, No problem here.”

No hay problema aquí. New Year NEW ME! (snap snap)

But really.

Our little pageant on December 19 gave me food for thought. I love keeping tabs of things, so here goes another goddamned list. Enjoy. 

Lessons learned:

  1. Ron taught me to never hide away from chicks in cinemas. Especially enraged, delusional, chicks I happen to be tapping casually off base. He also taught me that grenade-fishing can happen. 


2. Max taught me that Oliver Twist is not dead. And that begging for cigarettes is both acceptable and desirable. Especially in women.

Naturally, the flake that I am, I soon found myself pimped out. Engage in scavendry for tobacco? In exchange for Max’s validation?… Andiamo! Because I’m classy like that; …prying for free cigarettes. Preferably from strangers. In dark alleys.

Max stressed that women get away with such antics. We tested his hypothesis.  

“Excuse me young Samaritan!”…

“Marlboro lights preferably.”…

“no no – I’m Polish!

“I know I’m sorry”

“No Sure Yeah, no you roll”…

Max was correct. More than correct. Hell, I’d really made a life for myself now. I was a star out there. I shined bright like a diamond. I had my very own start-up, my very own, perverted, cigarette cartel. I possessed all types, shapes, sizes of the ole fag. (Openes trench coat) I got you covered brah. If you ever happen to see a disheveled wreck of a woman asking Israelis for cigarettes, chances are it’s me, or you know, a disheveled wreck of a woman period.  

3. Continuing with our theme of making it rain, Maisie taught me that crochet bikinis are an alluring, forthcoming business opportunity. If you can crochet that is. I cannot (yet).  I dabble in tobacco sales though.


(On a serious note – Maisie’s amazing – and if you are reading this – (excuse the name change- I thought it fit well) – I want to see you selling those crochet babies – soon.) 

4. Last but not least, Aly taught me that wine and art get on really well – too well – they’re probably cousins. Brothers from another mothers. She taught me that Israel, for all its flaws, makes marvelous white wine. Which, in conjunction with art utensils, a beanbag, and more wine, result in a heartwarming infusion of friendship and truth. Lovely little truth.

Drunken confessions are the bomb. (Enter women in field of bunny rabbits and s-mores.)

Bicycles and weed on the other hand, result in lost anklets and tears. Which is good, technically. I happen to value ankles far more than anklets. And tears are renewable.


Tan-gent: This is why we can’t have nice things. I had a nice thing once. Brought it on July 26; just got used to it as well. It stained my ankle with its cheap, metal, anklette love; we were getting on so well..Now it’s forever lost on streets of Tel Avivium, all because college girls be doing drugs.


And so the final lesson is either don’t buy anklets in Mexico, or don’t do drugs? Maybe stick to the white-wine-beanbag thing? Or just walk home instead? Just know, bicycle will be sad. AND That’s on you. That’s on you.

A Scott, a Brit, a Pole and a fake-Mexican walk into a bar…hide yo kids, hide yo wife,

and most definatley


 HIDE yo Marlboro Lights.

About the Author
Anna Wozniak lives in Tel Aviv. Sometimes, she goes outside. Sometimes, she writes about it. Some. Times.