Iiiiiiiiisrael

'Is it safe?'
'Be safe!'
'Try not to die, please...'

When you announce that you plan to visit the Middle East, you will invariably get sick of repeating the well-worn justification about the likelihood of terror attacks versus car accidents. Nevertheless, the constant worried faces and quips about being raped or blown up do eventually begin to niggle, just a little bit.

Emerging from Ben Gurion, it was hard to escape which part of the world I had plonked myself into. The bleaching sunlight, the truncated palm trees, and of course machine guns.

It did little to quell my nerves about travelling to the land of death-by-car-bomb that within minutes of my arrival at Ben Gurion Airport in Israel, I was greeted by the sight of my very first AK-47 slung casually across the shoulders of an Israeli youth in fatigues. This sighting was quickly followed by my second, third, tenth, twentieth as the train made its way to the central station.

On a far more pleasant note, I also spotted my first family of Hassidic Jews which made the whole Israel experience feel alot more real. In terms of people, the Israeli's blow continental Europeans out of the water in terms of kindness, friendliness and grasp of the English language.

Unfortunately the same love of English doesn't seem to apply to street signs and so as I emerged somewhat dazed from the train station I found myself in a completely unidentifiable square. All noble notions of slumming it to my hostel in Jaffa on a public bus were quickly eschewed when I spotted a good ol' taxi rank. My driver was a bit of a character. Once he deduced that I spoke English, he changed the radio and began singing along very enthusiastically to old country and Elvis tunes. He also swore at the other drivers in English, for my benefit.

On a map, Jaffa appears to be disconnected from Tel Aviv - a little like Geelong and Melbourne - but the only indication I got that we had hit my new neighbourhood was when the taxi driver apologised and indicated the blockade halfway along the street my hostel was on. I climbed out and gave him his shekels (best currency name... ever). And there I stood, disorientated and unprepared since I'd only just settled in for a bit of map memorising when we stopped, in the middle of a dirty, run down but not particularly intimidating street in the blazing heat. Logic prevailed and, following the street numbers and praying the Israeli's were kinder than the Roman and actually numbered sequentially, I moved along the street. Gradually, I recognised the flea market which Jaffa is apparently famous for, and more importantly, that my hostel apparently overlooks. The shop fronts began spilling out onto the pavement and I found myself surrounded by piano accordians, threadbare upholstered armchairs and seriously vintage telephones.

Suddenly, I spotted the sign for Old Jaffa Hostel. I buzzed at the gate and struggled somewhat with the deceptively heaving cast iron door. Once inside I groaned as I was faced with the mortal enemy of the wheelie bag - stairs. Again, I rued being a weak little female and thus a sucker for the glidey goodness of a wheelie bag for long schleps (like my Yiddish?) along city streets, albeit one which transforms into a back-board style backpack. I ditched my bag after one flight, reasoning that I may as well check in before I tackled the rest thsu giving me more time to run through the swear words I was going to use on the ascent.

The receptionist was the first rude Israeli I've met so far. She brusquely dealt with anyone who DARED interrupt my check-in procedure, and even though I should've been grateful it just made me shoot apologetic shrugs at the other guests and pray that she would be done with me soon. I lugged my bag up the remaining stairs and examined my new digs. I chose a skinny little bottom bunk next to the double doors leading onto the balcony. Black and white family portraits watched me as I admired the cute little gold painted iron bed frames, the mosaic floor and the very cute little balcony complete with a little cushioned arm chair/ lounge and a brazier as an ashtray.

As I stood on the balcony, the flea market hummed below. Soapy water oozed down the street from an old man's efforts to scrub a huge cooking pot on the pavement. Next to him, and impromptu card game between four old men was underway. Across the road, partially obscured by faded awning and blue Nestle icecream umbrella I could just glimpse the wares on sale. The general trend appeared to be Indian door hangings, plastic crappy bits and pieces and quite alot of dated furniture. To my left, a rooftop groaned under the weight of a makeshift garden with vines making a break for the neighbouring buildings. Above the roofs a strip of blue oriented me to the sea and further along the coast, the clock tower peeked above the tin and tile slopes. Directly opposite, a giant cat sprinted across the walls and a woman danced as she hung otu her washing. The call to prayer sounded, reminding me again, in case I'd somehow forgotten that I was not in the proverbial Kansas anymore. The only other distinct sound above the general market noises were bird calls which I suspect came not from real birds, but the tacky little whistles which seem to be very popular among the peddlers of useless souvenirs.

An American firefighter interripted my reverie as he admired my (and seven others') room. Turns out I scored well and not all are so lucky as to get an awesome balcony. Ha!

My afternoon was spent doing very little but I did wander down with my new American, Portuguese and Colombian friends to the beach to watch the sunset (has nothing on Santorini) and pick up a pide-like pie thing for dinner from the local bakery. We talked politics, dating, war, Palestine and tattoos on the balcony of the hostel for a while before I faded suddenly and had to climb into bed.

A sneak peek of my adventures from today:

- Walk along the promenade into Tel Aviv proper
- Carmel Street markets
- Window shopping along Nahalat Binyamin St and discovering a very cool little cafe with amazing coffe called Loveat.
- Finding myself comparing Sheinkin Street to Chapel or Greville Streets in Melbounre
- Braving a massive haircut at a little hairdresser in Sheinkin Street! I now have above the shoulder hair!
- Moseying back along Allenby Street and wondering where the hell all the felafels are hiding!

More to come!!!