The White City

Last week was my entree into Tel Aviv University life. I sat in on three classes, two on Yiddish literature (more in line with my research) and one—just for kicks—on the poetry of Tel Aviv. The lecturer, a wiry chap with long gray hair talked very excitedly about the poets of the Second Aliyah, who were committed to the ideals of tilling the soil and being one with the land. Unsurprisingly, they viewed Tel Aviv as cold, barren, anonymous—in a word, the antithesis of the Zionist dream. In an excerpt we read by David Shimoni, one sentence stood out:

מה לי פה ומי לי פה בקרית המלט ההומה

"What is for me and who is for me in this bustling cement settlement?"

Unlike Shimoni, I have found so much spirit in "The White City." But then again, Tel Aviv wasn't known as such when Shimoni penned those lines in the late 1920s. The more recent nomenclature refers to some 4000 Bauhaus or International Style buildings built in the 1930s by German-Jewish architects who immigrated after the rise of the Nazis (my apartment building included). Tel Aviv is row upon row of smooth lines, flat roofs, curved balconies and white plaster... unmistakably urban yet surprisingly serene.

I have lived in the White City for less than a week but have already pounded much of its pavement, and although I admit it bears little resemblance to the forests and fields that poets like Shimoni, Rachel and Uri Zvi Greenberg admired and extolled, I have found tranquility here.

Another thing stood out during the Shimoni discussion. Apparently, he was one of the most important poets of his day, but is barely read today...or as the lecturer quipped, "He's read neither here nor there...I don't even know where 'THERE' is, but if he isn't read HERE, you can bet he isn't read THERE!" How lucky I am to be in an environment where random Israeli poets—though perhaps infrequently read—never fade into obscurity.

Speaking of "random" and "obscure," those are the perfect descriptors for the tour I co-conducted Thursday evening for my friend James, who is visiting this week from Istanbul (we met in school in California but now find it more convenient to rendezvous on the other side of the globe!). Actually, I was just along for the ride (after all, I barely know Tel Aviv myself!). It began in the north Tel Aviv home of James' friend Yochai, who cooked a terrific dinner ("Yemmenite schnitzel" — what could be a better introduction to the sephardi-ashkenazi nexus?!) and then trotted us out to his favorite night spots, including a bar that serves nothing but champagne and salami and a cafe with mouthwatering, chocolate-infused, ice cream-laden waffles. We were heading north along the beach at about 1:00am when Yochai made a sudden b-line for what looked to me like a crummy roadside eatery. It turned out to be an Ethiopian restaurant that has live traditional music after 11:00pm. Our ivory-white faces were warmly welcomed by the regulars, one of whom kept coming over to us to say, "tehenu, tehenu!" (enjoy, enjoy!). By 1:45 we were up from our seats dancing with him. The Ethiopians have this amazing style of dance that involves nothing but shoulders. The one wearing a yarmulke was particularly skilled... though I should also give a shout out to the guy next to him because he bought me a rose. Sweet. James was amazed, and I'm not surprised. When you picture a country full of Jews, you don't usually imagine them with black faces, long legs and shimmying shoulders! One thing's for sure: "The White City" refers to the architecture alone. So what's next?! A 24-hour Yemmenite karaoke bar? In Tel Aviv, anything's possible!