“Shalom” said the Nepali man as we walked into his small Nepali restaurant and shop on the ugliest street in Tel Aviv. Emily’s face became deeply confused.
She stared at the Nepali posters on the wall and the various signs, flag and other giveaways that these people were in fact, Nepali.
What else was there to do but begin a conversation in Nepali? So she did.
And it was learned that there are 1500 Nepalis working in Israel and that the little shop makes only momo – Nepali dumplings – and chick peas. Besides this, we were welcomed to return as they practically cheered Emily a fond farewell.
But this was far from the first shock of the day, let alone of that half hour.
We had just returned on a shared mini-bus/service taxi from Jerusalem which let us off at the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station. Like every central bus station in the world, it wasn’t in the nicest area. Emily had the idea of picking up some food to go to take back to the apartment so we could do our work without interruption.
As I gazed across the sea of signs representing cheap and somewhat unsavory food stands – there it was – the unholy of unholies – a pork butcher. One store, all pork.
We should have taken it as a sign that we had entered another universe. Going from Old Jerusalem and the Western Wall to the pork shop on the corner in the matter of an hour is as close to heaven and hell fighting it out as it gets.
But we saw lots of people and shops across the street and so we crossed the unglamorous road to what we soon learned was the netherworld of Tel Aviv. Ethiopian immigrants selling shoes on blankets on the sidewalk of a slummy street lined with businesses for immigrant and migrant workers. Thai, Filipino, Chinese, Nepali and Ethiopian businesses lined the streets as their respective ethnics bustled in and out of the shops.
“Where are we?!” Emily kept asking. It was then that we sighted the Nepali flag outside the shop and had our encounter. Emily was almost hesitant to go in like it was a mafia enclave or a KGB trick.
I guess we shouldn’t have been too shocked. Israel uses foreign labor for agriculture, restaurant workers and a number of other lower level labor positions – a lot like America and Singapore. In fact, it has Singapore’s careful handpicking of specific nationalities for specific functions.
We were on the streets of Israel you never hear about. And it was clear they were the streets not to eat on either – so we left.
Earlier in the day, we learned many interesting and surprising things as well.
Sticking with food for a moment, in the running for best baklava of the trip – the bakery at the Jerusalem bus station. Shocking. Better than most of the baklava in Greece and Turkey combined. A true contender. Add it to your Jerusalem site list.
Taxi drivers are often the source of some of the best information. There’s so much you miss when you never take taxis. Our taxi driver in Jerusalem explained to us that living in Jerusalem is more expensive than living in Tel Aviv and that the old, renovated areas (of “New” Jerusalem) with single family dwellings run into the multi-millions.
As we drove through what appeared to be the Beverly Hills of Jerusalem, it was very nice. Multi-million nice? But apparently, these neighborhoods were hundreds if not thousands of years old – they just looked like new.
He also explained that the creme de la creme location not just in Jerusalem, but all of Israel was this complex adjacent to the Old City. To live in new luxury condos literally attached to the Old City with views of it apparently commands the most money of all. When you think about it, living in style next to not just a World Heritage Site, but THE site of sites, I guess it makes sense.
We asked our very helpful taxi driver to please drop us off somewhere we could find a restaurant or cafe with wireless internet in the Old City. He assumed we would find what we needed near the Jaffa gate – which we did. He cautioned us, “The food there is not kosher….” “We’re okay with that.” “Of course you are….”
And our last stop on the tour of surprises is a small and random thing we’ve had for days – Ziv’s apartment key.
Doors here have a series of four deadbolts which go into the usual side door frame as well as one that bolts into the top and two that bolt into the bottom of the door frame. The doors themselves are usually made of metal. And the keys are specially made with two magnetically coded circles on them which act like a “code” for the door lock. As a result, there is no turning the door lock with a knob or switch from the inside, it must be locked with the key.
“We don’t have locks like this in America,” I said to Ziv.
“What you have the single kind someone could kick down? The police probably like it that way….” Ziv said with a smile. Nobody is kicking down Ziv’s door.
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