Today, I did something I hate to do: I drove in Tel-Aviv. I’m glad I did.
As is always the case, there was no parking, so I queued for a place at the parking lot which, once-upon-an-Ottoman-time, was the railway linking Istanbul to Cairo. This middle of nowhere place forced me to walk down a horrible street – the main artery beside the Gan Hachashmal neighbourhood – and that’s how I stumbled upon Hamigdalor (The Lighthouse).
Nowadays, to find an independent bookstore anywhere is rare. To find one where each and every book is hand-picked by the staff and owners is a miracle. And so it is here: a compact yet immaculate collection of fiction, non-fiction, art and crafts in both Hebrew and English. Tiny, yet poetically perfect.
I spent rather too much money, yet far less than I could have – a book of Palestinian landscapes, a cookbook for Wife (a subtle hint that will probably get me punched in the face) and two new novels I’ve been looking for to no avail (the main Israeli chains, for want of a better word, suck). I also considered buying Baby a picture-book called “All My Friends are Dead”, or the sequel “All My Friends are Still Dead”, but finally refrained.
I have to leave something for next time.