Falafels and Zohans: A Year in Israel

I am here. Where this column should really take off. However for good reason this addition will I‘m afraid be a short one. For good reason. I’m shattered.

Thirty one days, in which both travel arrangements and social engagements fought for space much like sardines might (if still alive after a particularly briny fate), left little time to actually comprehend what was to be the whole point of my plight; namely, a semi-permanent move to Tel Aviv.

It’s been 5 days since touch-down and this has remained the case. Although I managed to stay awake enough to successfully kit the flat out with furniture, open bank accounts, install phone lines and fetch fizzies for the plumbers and tilers, I was then kept awake by the race-track outside my hotel room, also known as an Israeli side street.

The first night here coincided with an annual ‘White Night’; a celebration of the ‘Bauhaus’ style architecture for which the city is famous. Cafes, restaurants and shops all opened until 2am and partying continued long into the night. Unfortunately I learnt all this when wide awake at 3am, I texted anyone who might still be up. My hell-raiser of a cousin filled me on all the gory details. ‘You wont be getting any sleep tonight, hours of fun ahead’ read the reply and so with a heavy head I sat reciting the grammar tables for the verb ‘lishon’ - you can guess what it stood for.

There was no respite in the daytime either - if I wasn’t out in 36 degree heat meeting lawyers or buying toilet seats I was in the flat battling with my internet connection amidst a backdrop of dust and drills.

Second time around I practically skipped into bed (something rare for this night owl), and couldn’t believe it when approximately 30 seconds later, once relaxed and ready for the stillness of the night to transport me into blissful dreams, the toe-curling sound of cars beeping and engines howling filled the room. It was then I realised that White Night or not, this is one city that does not understand the 11pm-7am honk-barriers we so politely abide by in the UK.

I came prepared with ear plugs on my next attempt. When even these failed to have the desired effect, I refused to admit defeat and stuffed cotton pads into my ears at the same time as semi suffocating myself with my own pillow.

So although I haven’t quite grasped the meaning of life out here yet I’m convinced I’ve already begun to absorb the tough Israeli mentality. And in a few days I’ll have a builder-free flat where I am going to dedicate a draw to the best sound-proof cotton plugs man can buy.