I live in an airport

After moving from New York City to Tel Aviv, I can state with confidence that Tel Aviv is the more transient sister. I’ve come to think of this hedonistic heaven as an airport with a beach. “A college campus with a beach” was a close contender, but colleges have more structure. Between the sounds of construction, you hear luggage wheels struggle across the narrow, uneven sidewalks. I’ll run into a friend of a friend I haven’t seen in a year and ask, “do you still live here or are you visiting?” so I can update my mental Rolodex of “locals.” But are any of us locals in a place like this?

This city is a refuge for misfits. A place where you don’t have to contend with your different identities – you can just be. Unlike the countries you flew in from, your Jewishness doesn’t undermine your progressive values but explains them. Moreover, your queer identity isn’t at odds with your Zionism. All of your different parts integrate, and you can finally feel your full humanity as a Jew, both socially and under the eyes of the law.

In a similar vein, there is no such thing as being a misfit at an airport. After passing through security, we’re all the same. Your passport and your first language don’t really matter. It’s even socially acceptable to wear pajamas or drink beer at 11am. Because, much like youth, time is merely a construct here. Among the 40-year-old Peter Pans, you might bump into your uncle from LA or a girl you haven’t seen since you were 18-year-olds savoring your first taste of freedom in seminary.

And this wouldn’t be accurate if we didn’t mention the cost of living. Finding a decent mold-free apartment in Tel Aviv is like finding a relatively clean seat near an outlet. You know the cost of food and drinks is exorbitant, but what are you going to do – leave the airport? That doesn’t make sense. It feels more expensive to get a car and breach the Ayalon Highway than it does to stay. You accept the rules of this place, and it would feel claustrophobic if it weren’t for the beach. There’s something about being near water that makes you feel like you can leave anytime you’d like.

Seeing the water helps you forget about seeing your ex on a good date at the McDonald’s by gate B3. While we’re being honest, seeing the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen in your entire life also helps. We tell ourselves we go to the tayelet (boardwalk) to reconnect with nature and it’s not our fault that there are fit footvolley players in our sightline. Some shocking Tinder interactions may have tested your Zionism (and made Herzl roll over in his grave), but a trip to the tayelet always re-instills it.

Maybe the beauty of this place is that it belongs to visitors as much as it does to renters. The longer I’m here, the more I understand that Tel Aviv gives everyone the answer they need. For some of us, that means refilling our cup before braving the Diaspora again, and for some, that means living here long-term. Elie Wiesel said, “For the moment, this is all I can say: as a Jew, I need Israel. More precisely: I can live as a Jew outside Israel but not without Israel.”

I may joke about this being a smoke-filled, hedonistic airport, but it is where I feel most at home. I truly feel this is the center of the world, where Western freedoms meet Middle Eastern hospitality. As painful as it is to consistently say goodbye to friends and lovers, I don’t want to leave. The only constant here is change, as made evident by the turnover of coffee shops, wine bars, and concept stores, and the movement is dizzying at times, but like a Persian-owned fabric store on Nachalat Binyamin, some of us are more attached to this place.