I am marching
toward the Haifa Museum of Art with my son Yotam, who holds an old camera
loaded with black-and-white film, a camera which would, sporadically, document
my walk from the Museum to Palmer Gate, to the port, a route virtually unfamiliar
to me, except for negligible memory flickers from a long forgotten visit to Haifa's
lower town, and I think to myself that for me, this is an impenetrable, invisible,
yet-undeciphered setting, and when my gaze is turned towards the Museum's stone
building and the monumental posters covering it, announcing the place in three languages,
I wonder where I am going now and where the sea is, certain that the little
feet of my childhood, which swallowed up Tel Aviv's shortcuts, very possibly never
stepped here, and that this place is silent to me, and even the street signs:
"Shabtai Levi" to both east and west, were ostensibly meant to confuse
me, and I write down each and every detail in my pad, and notice the Keshet
Te'amim (Range of Flavors) supermarket, whose odd name draws my attention, and
I feel a little smile creep across my face, and perhaps it is because Tel Aviv
is glistening in the middle of a guidepost in-between the Carmel Center and the
lower town, and I notice the stone houses, the numerous traffic lights, the
Painters and Sculptors Association building, and I think how beautiful it is, practically
called for, that the Association is located near the Haifa City Museum, and
here is a library and a cultural center for children and youth, and the area takes
shape, opening toward a large sign with the inscription "Beit Hagefen,"
and I hear English and see the Arab-Jewish Center, and although the place tells
me nothing, I wonder whether the city, which I visit so infrequently, is a
foreign city, and I ask myself what is foreign about it and what is that
foreignness, and I am reminded of what Georges Perec wrote about foreign cities
and how we would have liked to tour them, to loiter, but we do not dare; we
don't know how to be swept away, we are afraid of getting lost, and his words
hit the mark, and I feel how this stupid fear slows my step, and in perfect accord
with Perec's observations, who writes that we don't really walk, but rather pace,
measure the street, we now cross the street and proceed in what seems like a downward
slope, and try to follow the signage of "Beit Hagefen" which seems so
promising, yet, to our surprise, guides us to a little side alley with a hint
of the sea, but after a few more steps it assumes a new guise, a type of no-man's
land or a hidden place, forgotten in its plainness, interspersed with little
sandy parking lots, large dumpsters gaping their mouths at a heap of balconies
adorned with flower pots made of large and small cans which make my heart flutter
and remind me of landscape splinters and a place whose exact essence or why it
was invoked just now I cannot figure out, and a few steps later, after turning
my head in all directions, a better groomed setting is gradually, almost cautiously,
exposed, with small internal gardens which outline an enclosed area, ostensibly
protecting its houses and yards from strangers, sprinkled with signs indicating
"no parking, private lot," and here is an elderly man climbing up the
road, his gaze focused on his steps, and we turn left to St. Luke's Street to face
a large cypress and stone houses which pave the space, and the prohibitive
signs all around, and our walking is akin to tiptoeing, carefully, lest we
disturb or rouse suspicion, and now an impressive stone building is revealed,
comfortably planted in its glory, with nine broad steps in front, pairs of
decorated columns, shut entrance doors, the Israeli flag on the roof, and the
inscription "Ramot Haifa Home," and I want to ask, "whose home?"
but there is no one on the street and I dare not knock on any of the doors, and
I turn right, and in my feet and arms and the oncoming sense of looseness in my
body I feel the slight downhill climb, the coveted downward climb which hints
at the nearing sea, and now we are at 12 Haparsim (Persians) Street and the
houses are modestly beautiful, restrained, the iron bars and stone columns of
the façades inspire a solemnity, the lawns are manicured, the wooden shutters
are painted green, a wall of cypresses is planted nearby, and poetry signs, arranged
side by side, are hung on the walls of one of the street wings, ostensibly
awaiting faithful readers to look ahead, read, roam over the words and thoughts
gently absorbed into the stone walls, and I read a poem by Shakib Jahshan, and
my eyes fall on the poem's columns: "As long as palm and girl transpire on
the roadside / As long as flutter and yearning fill the heart / The winds will
blow as they will," I place my hand on my whirling hair, and I am happy to
traverse the poetry route, and I know this is the right way and the right words,
and I mumble the Hebrew and Arabic and English on the walls and signs with
great passion, and then I read out loud, and I pass by the music conservatory
and pause by Yoav Hayek's poem and read: "If I take the opposite direction
/ The opposite direction will come back to me," and recall how important it
is to look back from time to time, and see that which was and realize that the
sight is often changed, perhaps changing, and think how the route appears to
the one coming from the opposite direction, with the sea already behind him,
staining his back, and the house walls and poetry verses refuse to let go, and
I continue downhill, downward all the way to a surprising garden, surrounded by
cypresses and outlined by iron bars, and I approach and peek through the gaps in
the fence and discover a royal garden, and I see the sea which is still far off,
and I stop by a gardener who holds a long pruning hook as if he were seeking a
childhood ball swallowed by the hedge, and ask him: "What is this
place?", but the gardener doesn't answer, and I ask again and again, and
he doesn't answer, and I wonder why, and the silence all around sounds like an
impervious rustle without beginning or end, and only occasionally does someone
pass by, the sound of his steps rising from the street and bathing the space
around, and once again I discern the sea before me and the mountain behind, and
a white dome stands out, and already the familiar sign "Wadi Nisnas,"
and then a large green sign explaining that Acre is to the left and the Carmel center
to the right, and so is Hadar, and with a slight hesitation I proceed straight
on, and a route of aromas unfolds before me, and the Mas'ud abu-Hadra supermarket,
and I ask a man in a pink striped shirt who comes out of the shop whether
Palmer Gate is down, and I hear myself using this strange directional word
"down," and I pass by Ganem shawarma and the Bambino butcher shop from
which emanates the smell of kebab, and I am drawn eastward to Abed Elhadi
Sweets, and I know why I am drawn there, and decide to turn seaward, and I come
up against a traffic circle and I don’t know where to proceed from here, and
decide to turn right, and everything is so strange, a jumble of houses and
shops, signs in all hues and shapes, turning in all directions, quarreling with
the traffic signs slovenly inserted on the sidewalk edge, and trees and movement
and height, and here is a gas station before me, at whose sight I regain my confidence,
and as I cling to it, in the distance I identify the familiar Dagon Silos, and
I turn right, for some reason, and walk toward the Greek Orthodox Church of St.
Elias (Elijah) the Prophet, and above the entrance there is a mosaic of Elijah ascending
to the heavens, seated in a four-horse chariot of fire, with crosses and parked
cars all around, and I pass by the Shekhade Bakery whose bread I have never
tasted, and by the Arab-Israel Bank which puts a smile on my face, and a Hinawi
branch, and I shout at Yotam, who is filming, "look, here's Hinawi,"
and once again I am reminded of Perec's words about visiting foreign cities,
and how we (or he) are excited at the sight of an Air France office, virtually bursting
into tears when we find Le Monde in a newsstand, and no place, no place,
I say to myself, relates to any memory, any emotion, any face, and I continue
right to Hameginim (Defenders) Blvd. and the "rocket" appears before
me in all its majesty, an upright skyscraper whose pointed head touches the
sky, and before me I see a young woman dressed in blazing yellow crossing the
street, her long feet tripping slightly on high heels, and I advance on Ein Dor
Street and stop to ask whether I am following the right direction, and the man
with a heavy Arabic accent explains that I have to turn right, and than continue
straight on until I reach traffic lights and a cross, and he repeats the word
"cross" time and again, and it takes a few seconds before I realize that
he means a crossroads, and unsure I turn right into a narrow alley, and in
front of me and to my sides are stacked buildings, blackened, overflowing with
intersecting electric cables, stretched between windows and apertures, air conditioner
units imprisoned in iron cages, solar heaters, and water and sewage pipes, the backyard
of a hidden façade, and we walk into the alley, awestruck by the utter ugliness
revealed to us, and as I look sideways I see an unfinished concrete building that
appears to have been forgotten for some time, and the building and its
surroundings have been taken over by despair, neglect is all around and scattered
waste, and the faded vertebrae of construction waste clearing pipes, and next
to the rusty fence are fragments of an old fabric armchair and cans whose
labels have whitened in the sun, a dirty bedcover, slightly swollen creased
plastic bags, and as I turn left on 6 Pikadon Street by Heshbon Street I see a
carpentry workshop and hanging laundry, and I smile and think to myself that
there is an inkling of south Tel Aviv in this place, and I observe a sewage
puddle, a deserted ice cream truck, spare parts and bits and pieces of the past,
and every closed shutter bears the sign "no parking, private lot,"
and later along the street are banks and a café on the corner of 39 Jaffa
Street, and I realize that the road already opens breadthwise, and to my right
is Ha'atzma'ut (Independence) Blvd which I know slightly, and Palmer Gate is no
longer so far, and on the way, between the shops and their crowded signs, a
beggar is sitting on the ground, smoking a cigarette butt, and she asks Yotam
to photograph her, and then shuts her eyes and leans her head heavily against
the wall behind her, and we turn our gaze at Harry the goldsmith who invites us
in, and for the first time throughout this walk we actually talk with someone,
who smiles and looks at the gold ring on my right pinky, my mother's ring,
which she got from her father, whom I never knew, and he asks if he may take a
closer look at it, and I take it off and hand it to him, and while doing so I
notice that my palm is speckled with blue ink, and Harry the goldsmith tells me
that the gold is fine and offers to straighten it a little, and he threads it
on a small iron rod gradually thickening at its base, and beats it slightly
with a small hammer and returns it to me with a smile of satisfaction, putting
it on my finger, and I reciprocate with a smile, and we march a little more,
and lo and behold, here is the Palmer Gate, and in front of us Hanamal (The
Port) Street running in both directions, everything around seems deserted, the
shop shutters are rolled down, a broken sign, and HaOgen (the Anchor) Pub on
the other side of the road, a cart overflowing with beer barrels is painted on
the top wall above the entrance, mounted to four horses, and I think that
Elijah ascended to the heavens at the Church of St. Elias and his horses still
ride on the heads of visitors to the place, and then I enter the pub for a minute,
turn my gaze backward to the rows of forsaken shops across the street, take two
or three steps back, and then I turn around and walk out
Photo by Yotam Menda-Levy
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