On Friday, we trekked to Jaffo/Yafo/Jappo on foot (spellings in English are phonetic).  We trekked down the Rothschild Blvd, temporary home of thousands of youths living in tents (an estimated 200,000 turned out on Saturday night).  We walked down the broad avenue and then turned into a set of narrow streets filled with boutiques and art galleries.  Our destination … Jaffa, the ancient port from which Jonah sailed on his mission to avoid the mission G-d set out for him.  It did not turn out well for Jonah.  He got swallowed by a whale.  Jaffa dates back to ancient Palestine, whereas the rest of Tel Aviv dates back to 1910 (or more recent).

The concrete and macadam of Tel Aviv is replaced by stones in Jaffa — stone walls, stone curbs, stone streets.  It is a “mountain … or rather a hilltop town rising several hundred feet above the level of the sea, and jutting out from the coast thereby giving expansive views of the shoreline and city of Tel Aviv.  Jaffa is topped with a large lush garden.  Apparently Jaffa has been destroyed countless times, including the 20th century.  Since the last destruction, the highest points of Jaffa, the city were cleared to create a large open stone-paved plaza and grassy gardens. In the hot mid-afternoon sun, you can appreciate the shade trees in the park.

As we wandered around Jaffa, up and down stairs, around the port, through the plaza, in the hot sun, I noticed the strange lack of people.  This was August in Israel.  I expected massive bus tours and piles of people.  As we wandered into the market, we began to see people.  The congregated in shady areas, under canopies, and in shaded alleyways.  Someone was telling us something.  Tel Avivians avoid the heat; even tourists soon learn the lesson.  As we emerged from the market and proceeded down the hill, we discovered where Tel Avivians go on a Friday afternoon to avoid the heat.  They go to the beach.  It appears the best time to visit Jaffa is at night when the temperatures drop and the cooling breeze comes off the sea.

TEL AVIV: Life is a beach … or so it seems.  After checking the email (dewey.exchange defender.com/owa) and checking the voicemail (8×8.com) we headed out … out of Tel Aviv.  Our goal was to travel North.  We found our car (free courtesy of hosts from HomeExchange.com) and headed out.  We turned on our portable GPS (que.com) and decided to wander, knowing that we would be “neverlost”.

We headed down Rothschild Boulevard, past the tent city, quiet in the early morning sun.  After wandering through the “colonial” area, past homes of dubious construction and age, we turned to the beach, the heart of the “modern” city.  The beaches are wide, clean and sandy.  They are lined by luxury high rises and resorts.  Visions of pioneer Israel with the dust and dilapidated buildings that predated my visit were nowhere to be seen.  The sights were quite distinct from those of “Exodus” … the book, not the torah scroll.

Up and out. We headed North of the city. Passing Dizengoff Street, the cafe district, and by the “Tal Hotel”, the scene of my last debauchery in Israel when I traveled as a recent U.Penn Law School graduate, on a tour courtesy of the WZO.  We passed lush parks by the river.  The haphazard construction of Tel Aviv was replaced by the modern totally planned cities north of Tel Aviv.

Highway 2 which heads along the Mediterranean passed one planned modern city after another.  There is the Microsoft research center, and Citrix, and Nokia, and Technion, and Google.  Sleek glass towers look out on the Mediterranean sea, monuments to the ingenuity of the Israeli and the aliyot.  Past these modern wonders; cities in the sand, we raced in our air conditioned chariot; racing back in time 2000 years to the time of King Herod “the Great”.  We were off to Ceasaria (multiple spellings abound).

Off the highway, we passed lush gardens and emerged at the park entrance.  Here King Herod, to impress his Roman patrons built a lavish deep water port.  He was not stopped by the fact that there was no deep water harbour to dock ships.  Instead, he had a vision of a land, in the sand dunes that was centrally located commercially on the trade routes between Egypt, Sidon, Athens and Rome.  He was not limited by his surroundings; he was the “master of his surroundings.”

To get fresh water for his planned city and monument to Caesar Augustus, he built an aqueduct (seen above) along the sea several miles to a source of fresh water.  And for his harbor, he performed an engineering feat which is astounding even in modern times, taking wooden pylons, and filling them with volcanic ash, and sinking them to create an enormous harbour far out into the ocean.  Volcanic ash, sand and sea water creates waterproof, sea salt impervious concrete. The remains of his palace, the aqueduct and the harbor are impressive to this day.

In the harsh afternoon sun, nearly 100 degrees in August, we baked.  I thought, why would Herod build his city here; no shade, baking sun.  And yet, a few hours later (after swimming in the shadows of the Roman aqueduct, we returned as the sun was setting.  The temperature had dropped 20 degrees and there was a steady cool breeze coming from the sea.  The place, empty and stark, was now filled with elegantly dressed Israelis out for their entertainment.  The outdoor restaurants were overflowing; music was in the air, and the wine flowed freely.  Modern Israel met ancient Palestine, and they were one.

At 1:00 PM the sun streaming into our room woke us from our slumber.  Israeli sunlight is bright, sharp and focus- enhancing.  We awoke with a view of a lush tropical paradise.  The patio outside our window was awash with light.  The white tiles contrasted with the lush green tropical plants.  even in the midst of the urban sprawl of Tel Aviv, we felt like we were on a carribean vacation.  It was the light and the heat and the distant smell of the sea.

LATER THAT NIGHT. Benny and Naomi’s apartment is a 2-story duplex on the roof of a small apartment house on Rothschild Boulevard,  We are in the heart of the high-rent district of Tel Aviv, and that is the rub.  The beautiful tree-lind park in the middle of the wide boulevard, normally a shaded promenade, is the site of a tent-city.  Young, well-dressed college kids have occupied all 15 blocks of the park.  They have placed nylon pup tents on the grassy median.  At the ends of each block and in the middle are congregating areas.  Covered with straw mats, cushions and even couches, these areas came alive last night.  Each became the staging area for a mini concert.

Area one, just outside our window started at 8 PM with a continuous drum beat — low and deep.  It penetrated the walls, … the windows, … through the shutters,  louvers and curtains.  At 9:00 PM, one drum joined another, and soon there was a chorus of drums.  A while later the Yemenites started their howl … high guttural outbursts followed by frantic drumming.  When I ventured on the street, I saw a mixed crowd.  In the center an Israeli hippie in long tallit, a shaggy beard down to his navel, and long flowing hair topped with a keepa.  Surrounding him was a crowd of chanting Israeli youth, some in sundresses, others in short shorts, and muscle-mend with bronzed skin and six-pack abs.  Even the passing Israeli business man in their uniform of khaki pants and short-sleeve button-down Oxfords.

Just up the street was a DJ, blasting a variety of protest songs in mixed languages.  Some I recognized the tune.  Imagine Woody Guthrie songs sung in Hebrew.  As we sat down for a late dinner of omelettes with eggplant salad, avocados and tomatoes, a familiar tun struck my ears.  It rose over the drum beat and Yemenite howls.  It started in Hebrew, accompanied by the wailing violins and soon a full orchestration.  I knew the tune; was it Hatikva?  Hava Nagila?  I was puzzled; the tune haunted me.  Even the kids perked up their ears.

After the endless Yemenite drums and howling chants, this tune peaked our attention.  And then we heard some worked in English; we noted the familiar lyrics rising above the tents.  “If I were a rich man … ”  How fitting as we sat in our luxury penthouse duplex above the crowded tent city sipping ice cold Coke and eating from the fruit of the land.  Ah … “If I were a rich man, daidle deedle daidle deedle daidle deedle deedle dum, …”

Our flight from Kennedy airport was delayed 3 1/2 hours.  We didn’t leave until after 6 PM.  It seems that two thunderstorms materialized somewhere over the Eastern seaboard, even though the sun never stopped shining.  There is now the possibility of an overnight stay in Moscow.  The passengers continuing on to Israel are lobbying for them to hold our connecting flight.  … Given that nearly 1/3 of the flight (over 30 passengers) will be continuing on to Tel Aviv, that option is likely.

A FEW HOURS LATER … after our 2nd on-board meal. Strangely, but not so strange, they offered us a Kosher meal.  And the food, some stuffed fish and rice, was quite tasty.  The eggplant salad was extremely spicy, even for my taste … We have landed in Moscow, 4 hours late … and of course our plane has departed.  We are now BACK on line.  At the front is our ringleader and negotiator screaming at the impassive Russian customer service representatives.  One hour passes with no progress.  But, we do get some bottled water.  Finally we get some progress, a boarding pass for a flight that leaves at 8:40 PM (we had arrived at noon), and a food voucher.  The delay from our lead negotiator was her demand for Kosher food.  Because of that demand, no boarding passes for the next flight had been issued.

BARBI DOLLS. The American vision of Russians is babushkas, the stooped and wrinkle grandmothers, pushing their shopping carts.  How wrong.  We are in the international transit terminal. Between the gates are the makings of an upscale shopping male with all the luxury brands (Guerlane, Lancome, Dior, Givenchy, Clinique) and the women look like they actually buy this stuff.  Russians on a whole dress up at the airport as if they are going to the metropolitan opera.  Full battlegear, plunging necklines, tapered waists, and ultra-high heels, long flowing blond hair and perfect tans.  This is the NEW Russia.

After a mad dash across the width of Long Island (2 hours) we arrived at Transaero check-in.  It was a mix of Russians (the flight terminates in Moscow), Orthodox and Hasidic jews (our destination is Tel Aviv) and mixed groups formerly part of the Soviet Union, now the Russian Federation.  The foreignness started as soon as we entered the line to check in.

We cleared security very quickly.  After a single announcement in English a member of the U.S. based flight crew attempted a Russian announcement.  The result from an otherwise quite group was applause.  After a series of announcements in Russian (none in English) I noticed that we were among the last few people still sitting down.  We had scarfed some “dinner” from a food kiosk, fearful of the “inedible” Russian food that would be served on the flight.

I remarked in a stage whisper, observing the long queue that wrapped into the next gate: “The Russians surely love to stand in line.”  I got a chuckle from a fellow seated American who nevertheless stood up immediately to join the queue.