Crying All the Way to the Bank

Tel Aviv: First Impressions

I'm partial to things orderly, ritualized, and dependably in one location; I don't travel well. Living out of a suitcase violates my life's fundamental structure. My first few days in Israel were spent creating order out of chaos. My wife's arrival, plunged any order I'd created back into darkest anarchy.

I took a morning stroll down Ibn Gabriol in search of breakfast, and at the recommendation of indigenous personnel, ended up at the Aroma Café—the Israeli equivalent of Starbucks. Tel Aviv hipsters turn up their noses at the Aroma, preferring less corporate dining.

Ibn Gabriol is lined with traditional cramped restaurants and shops with wares and chairs creeping onto public walkways and punctuated by fetid, offensive smells and a proprietor's occasional chemically perfumed attempt to overpower an ancient, unsanitary bathroom.

The Aroma Café is an oasis in a desert of uncaring shopkeepers. Judging from shekel–spending patterns, Israeli's are beginning to prefer clean shops and pleasant customer service in lieu of traditional businesses beloved by Tel Aviv's cultural snobs. Aroma, Inc. is crying all the way to the bank.