Last update - 00:00 20/08/2007
Israelis in August / Going to the beach is a Jewish tradition
By Dror Mishani
In recent years, we have been inundated by books and articles arguing that Tel Aviv has long turned its back on the sea. The problem with this claim is that whoever made it has never set his foot on the sand, nor wants to. The truth is that Tel Aviv in the summer is a city entirely attuned to the sea, and many of its streets lead to the beach. All you have to do is walk on those streets.
Both Frishman and Bograshov streets take you, as though of their own accord, from the tumultuous city center to the beach. And although people tend to say that Tel Aviv is flat, Frishman and Bograshov are miraculously built on a slope. The closer you get to the sea, whether on foot or by bicycle, they urge you on, and at times it seems the water itself is drawing you forward with some unseen force.
Although the sea reveals itself in all its glory only at the corner of Ben-Yehuda Street, passersby can sense it from Dizengoff Street. The people are wearing less than pedestrians in the city center and are more suntanned. They're wearing flip-flops and have towels sticking out of their bags.
My beach is Frishman Beach, and even though I know that there are nicer and more popular ones, I will never replace it with another. Having your own beach, like having your own synagogue, is a matter of tradition, and my father took me to Frishman Beach. The early morning hours at Frishman are the best. That's when the fervent beachgoers arrive at the sea at the exact same time every morning - when the night chill is still in the air - as though showing up for a daily prayer service. They unfold their beach chair and put it down on the same grain of sand as the day before.
Then the ceremony begins. Out comes the towel, folded like a prayer shawl, and then the thermos and prayer book - that is, the newspaper. A look around is enough to ascertain that the regular members of the quorum have arrived. Moshe, the legendary, sharp-tongued lifeguard at Frishman Beach, with his golden, prophet-like beard, takes his first dip of the day to learn the temperament of the water.
The French show up a long time later, around 10 or 11 A.M., after getting their beauty sleep. Even the lifeguards and waiters at the beach cafes have suddenly begun speaking French, to the point where it seems that nowhere is this beautiful language spoken more than at the Tel Aviv coast in August.
The natives welcomed the French at first, but a hidden hostility has crept in this summer. It could be because the French conquerors have raised real estate prices, or because what's expensive for those who earn in shekels is cheap for those who come with their euros. But mostly it's because the French really like to lie on the first row of beach chairs, the one closest to the water, and the hotel workers reserve spots for them while the French are still sleeping in their fancy hotel rooms.
As for other locals, Israelis get along with them better at the beach than anywhere else. They're relaxed and friendly and everything is awash in harmony, apparently because the sea's eternal presence puts everything into perspective. The old and the young, the fat and the thin, the smooth and the hairy, the tanned and the pale - in short, everyone you would never find together in other circumstances - sit side by side on the beach. They smile at each other, gauge their bodies' flaws with a level-headed acceptance, and are just as tolerant of other people's exposed imperfections. Just as in synagogue, all are equal before the impartial gaze of the sea.