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Bar-crawling on a certain Tel Aviv street
Ofra Lior, City Mouse
Two Klonex pills, a Shiatsu treatment, a tape cassette of Calming Sounds of the Sea and Olmert's resignation are of no use to me as I make a right-hand turn onto Ben-Yehuda Street, the only street that could wipe that grin off the Dalai Lama's face. Indeed, like Tibet, we in Tel Aviv have become accustomed to a cruel regime that systematically tramples our basic rights. But on Ben-Yehuda, we subjects are denied the last right left to us - paid parking. For about an hour, I drive around desperately looking for a spot, although I'm not one of the naive ones who look for the blue-and-white marked pavements. Back and forth, I was searching for that modern oasis - the parking lot - and gurnisht, zilch, scratch, no dice.
On any other day, I would have done a U-turn and headed back toward civilization two minutes away, but this time I park the car at another disaster area - Kikar Atarim - and start walking. This is all because a girlfriend of mine who once dared called Ben-Yehuda "home" decided to leave to New York. I'm not going to let this Satanic street ruin a great friendship and most certainly a free night's stay in the Big Apple. As determined as ever and accompanied by a supportive, calming male companion, I set out to defeat Ben-Yehuda.
The first battle goes to Ben-Yehuda. Weary at 1:00 A.M., we reach the far north end for a drink. We find ourselves in Morty and Helen, a bar near the apartment of a friend of ours. We look around and decide we really like the impressive wallpaper on one side, the brick wall, the drapes at the entrance, and the empty frameworks in the middle. But we don't understand why everything had to be all in one place. But what does it matter, as long as the bar is packed on a Sunday night and the alcohol works its calming magic on the nerves.
Next, we had counted on hitting the safe bet bars - Gymnasia, Friends, Barbunia, and Benedict - but our friend steers us instead in front of a kiosk. "This is 'Hamefaked,' (the commander) the coolest place on Ben-Yehuda," she says. "Go buy cigarettes."
"I have another full pack."
"So what? You're not really here for the cigarettes. Go ask him for cigarettes," the Ben-Yehuda local hollers at me.
I go in and buy the smokes, hoping that I won't on the following day see my picture splashed across the front pages, wanted as the prime suspect in a Columbian drug running conspiracy.
The man at the counter, dressed and looking as though he had minutes ago returned from the Vietnam War, asks me in a hoarse voice:
"Yes commander, what can I get you commander?"
"Cigarettes please," I say.
"As you command, commander, order understood. Thank you commander, I salute you commander."
He's probably suffering from shellshock I decide, and leave the store a little battle weary too, not because of the bizarre shopping experience, or the pack of cigarettes sporting a customer's Facebook photo, with the words "I'm the commander's friend on Facebook!" splashed across the bottom. As I leave the store, I run into a group of revelers, roaring with excitement, certain they have found the Middle East's largest supply of Chupa Chup's, the Spanish lollipop sold in kiosks the world over.
Now more in need of a drink than ever, I succeed in steering my comrades to Alcohome, a bar a couple of doors down from the kiosk commander.
Like Gefilte fish at a Yemenite wedding, this place is surprising, and catches you off guard - it's a small neighborhood bar in Tel Aviv bereft of pretension and posing. Even the bartender turns to us immediately, "Do you want to see the menu or should I go ahead and pour you some Goldstars?
She is spot-on with the order, and she brings us a bowl of pretzels. While I'm taking in the freshness of the beer, my partners in crime can't stop commenting on the crunchiness of the pretzels, a sure sign that they, and those sitting behind us having the same debate, have completely lost their minds.
Air pollution on Ben-Yehuda must have an effect on the brain, because as the symposium on pretzel crunchiness is taking place, another customer makes an attempt to leave and instead of simply pulling the door open, somehow finds himself caught between the door and a curtain, and doesn't quite make it out for some time.
Finally, a Ben-Yehuda bar crawl is not complete without a visit to Eliezer, known for playing mashed-up Israeli classics and packing partygoers in to the rafters. Like many things in life however, it's a different story at 2:30 A.M. on a Sunday. We manage to sit comfortably and stretch out next to the bar, where we're served immediately by a bartender who informs us that not only is it okay to smoke here, it's encouraged. He then plies us with free chasers as the DJ plays Indie tracks from bands like Interpol. Simply put, we feel at home here.
On the way back to the car, I come to the realization that there's no need to waste time and energy fighting the streets and parking problems of Tel Aviv, instead, we should just spend more on taxis - and booze.
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