Thursday, November 7, 2019

I lean against a wall across from the shop, carefully eating a cup of gelato. The flavor has no name. The sign stuck in the tray says “Ask us.” When I requested a cup of whatever it was, the server asked if I was OK with hazelnuts. Apparently some people aren’t. The sign on the wall above me says I’m on Pines Street, but “Pines” is pronounced as if the vowels were in Italian. Around me, people chatter in French, German, Dutch, and in English with several different accents. I only hear one couple speaking Hebrew. Taxis roll slowly down the streets that cross here, waiting for people to get out of the way. At the intersection, they alternate going through, as if at a stop sign. The drivers aren’t known for their patience, but here they have no choice. Across the other street from me, men hop off a cart and load it with scooters that have been left lying around. They talk loudly in Arabic. Everyone ignores them. When they’re done, they drive down the sidewalk as far as they can, then shift onto the street and away from us, down toward the sea.