The Tel Aviv Twilight Zone

Every New Year's weekend, the SciFi Channel in the United States broadcasts a marathon of episodes of the Rod Serling masterpiece The Twilight Zone. For the uninitiated, The Twilight Zone is an old black and white science fiction television show, but it also has become much more of a cultural phenomenon. The series tackled old moral parables, society's obsessions and the way we thought of ourselves. Stories didn't always have a happy ending, often the episode would leave the viewer vaguely unsettled, as Serling's voice wrapped up the narrative and signed off.

Now, the term "Twilight Zone" has become ubiquitous for a place that isn't quite right, or all that it seems. It's used to describe discomfort you can't name, situations that seem backwards, yet logical, a sort of cultural or social "out of body experience". For a further definition, please visit Tel Aviv.

The cultural and political capital of Israel (or "Occupied Palestine" depending on where you're from) Tel Aviv comes off as a cross between New York and LA, with a hefty dose of the Mediterranean thrown in for good measure. The beaches are beautiful, the urban planning spectacular. The sidewalks are wide, trees provide shade, and large recycling bins are easy to find. Food is incredibly expensive (though to be fair, quite delicious), much like any Western capital. But there is a nagging insecurity about the place, that hangs on while you're walking around, and shows up in the people themselves.

For all of the "dangerous" cities I've been to, the real threat of terrorism has never crossed my mind, except in passing as something that you really can't waste time worrying about. I've never actually not felt safe. But in Tel Aviv, I was often nervous in crowded places, scanning crowds. I didn't take any public buses inside the city. No matter how comfortable I felt culturally, some part of me was still uncomfortable. On one hand I was ashamed of my fear, but on the other, it was a sign to me that something wasn't quite right.

The Israelis themselves had the same variation in temperament as you find among any people: some good, some bad. A friend of a friend of mine was nice enough to invite us to his home, and that experience ranks as one of the most touching acts of hospitality I have been given. Waiters in restaurants and taxi drivers nearly always had a story of a visit to the U.S. that they were eager to share.

However, there was a segment of the population that was snotty, arrogant, and condescending. Whenever I told them that I lived in Jordan, in response to their curiosity, I was met with "Why would you want to live there?" . . . "I hope they're paying you well.". . ."It's like a Third World Country over there" . . . and "Oh but you like Israel better right?" Such judgmental and ignorant people remind me, unfortunately, of a segment of Americans who express exactly the same sentiments toward other people and cultures. They are so enamored of their own limited sphere of existence that they refuse to entertain the possibility of something good occurring somewhere else. And in their opinions, those who do appreciate that potential are traitors.

And the need for acceptance I heard, the sort of craving to be reassured that Israel was "better" than everywhere else, seemed to belie a deep insecurity about international opinion.

It was shocking to find such ignorance in a country whose existence and daily life is so closely intertwined with and affected by that of its neighbors. While racism, stupidity, and close-mindedness are certainly not unique to any country or culture, it was disheartening to see it in a beautiful, modern, developed place such as Tel Aviv, whose potential is hidden by a conflict that remains gridlocked because of the stubborn prejudices of all parties involved.

Sangria Nights: Sleepless in Spain and Elsewhere

College is about three things: homework, fun, and sleep. But you can only choose two.

Traveling has made me an insomniac. Not simply because of jet lag, time changes, overnight flights and six hour layovers. I run myself ragged while abroad (and at home) because I just don’t want to miss anything.

I’m not sure that I ever saw the Cairenes sleep. Or even go to bed. They were always still out, at restaurants and ahwas, coffee houses, all over the city. Even children would be out until 2 or 3 in the morning playing soccer in the streets because it was so much cooler than during the day. My friend Gouda put it best – “nothing even starts until midnight.”

Spain represented for me a week-long true vacation. While Cairo was fun and exotic, I had gone there to work and study, not be a tourist, and there were responsibilities that I had to attend to. Spain had none of those.

I flew into Madrid, and met my friend Nick, who had been studying in Pamplona. My flight was two hours late leaving Amsterdam, which meant there was no way we’d be able to catch the bus tickets Nick had already purchased. Of course.

The plan was to take a week and see Andalusia, the southern region of Spain, visiting Seville, Granada, and Valencia, in that order, then jump back to Madrid for a night to catch our flights home the next morning. We only had a day or two in each city, so compromises needed to be made; sleep went first.

After arriving in Seville at 10:30 at night, we found our hostel, checked in, took showers, and promptly went out. We went to be around two, and got up at eight for a full day of sightseeing, walking around the whole city until dinnertime, about 8:30. Then we went back out.

The logic here is simple and deadly: we have to leave in the morning, and it’s a five-hour bus ride, so why sleep now? Sleep on the bus.

Brilliant.

In fairness to my traveling companion, I would like to make clear that we did significant amounts of sightseeing, and our exploits were in no way confined to the nightlife of Andalusia. We had a delicate balance. It was probably good we only kept it up for a week.

The quote at the top of this post is true in more arenas of life than school. It’s the rationalization I give to myself when I go see a 14th century Spanish palace over sleeping in. It’s also my justification for when I ate churros con chocolate and relaxed in the park instead of going to a museum.

Generally, my go-to sacrifice is sleep, the theory being I can sleep all I want when I’m dead. However what I have learned from this summer and fall is that not seeing one more famous painting will ultimately pale in comparison to the night smoking shisha and drinking Turkish coffee with my friends. People too, can be missed just as fiercely as places, and I have come to rely and value the relationships I have forged much more that I appreciated visiting the Sphinx.

The solution: sleep on the bus while planning the next adventure.