Saturday, March 14, 2020

Three other parties are sitting in the cafe. On the Sabbath, I usually visit relatives at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers, but no one other than residents and workers are allowed in. I didn’t want to miss a day seeing other people in person while it’s still allowed, so I’m here, at the only place that’s open. At one table, two old men are arguing politics over tea with mint. At another, four people chat in Hebrew and English. Their tiny black dog keeps jumping from the floor onto a woman’s lap and then onto the table. In front of me, a couple shares an Israeli breakfast. Each man ceremoniously scoops up various dips with bread and feeds it to the other, often closing the action with a brief kiss. At one point, they and the other men at the table sing something in unison, so softly that I can’t tell what language it’s in. Their interjections, called out with laughter, are clearly in Hebrew, though some words sound like Arabic. I get through most of the ordering process in Hebrew. When I hesitate, the server explains in English what she can tell that I didn’t understand, then switches back to Hebrew. This is better than before. Usually, when people switch to English, they stay in English, but she can tell that my Hebrew is getting good enough that I can get through most of it without translation. The breakfast is excellent. Later, I hear the Prime Minister announce that all restaurants are to close. I’m glad to have gotten there one last time.