On Beaches and Homes

So I decided we must do a little traveling. We rented a car for the day and drove north on the coastal highway. The Mediterranean accompanied us all the way, glistening to our left. After Haifa we drove north through the suburbs and passed the kibbutz I used to live at when I was 20, the magazine offices I wrote for. (I had such balls back then, I told Sean nostalgically, walking in there, fresh out of the army service and new to the area and telling them they must hire me!)
Eventually we made it to Akhziv beach, maybe half an hour south of the Lebanese border. I recently heard they opened a Banana Beach there and thought it would be the perfect place to sit and have a beer, eat some hummus and watch the sunset.

A few words about Banana Beach. When I was 22, after coming home from my first big trip, one year through India, Nepal and North America, I found a job at a new restaurant-bar-café on the beach in Tel Aviv. I never waited tables before but I thought I’d give it a try. I was back to working as a journalist at various magazines, but I needed more money to cover my debt from the trip AND save for my next one… my goal was to do it in six months and I didn’t care if I had to work day and night to accomplish it. My very first table tipped me 20 shekels on a 15 shekel bill. It was ridiculous. I decided I like waitressing.

Banana Beach was the perfect place for me. It was easy going, casual and the staff was young and hip. When summer came the place filled up and started opening 24 hours. We had regulars coming there every day and staying for hours, sometimes buying nothing but gallons of mint tea. The tables were placed on the sand, so I worked barefoot. I got to watch sunsets and sunrises, full moons and black moons (I mostly worked at nights until 7 or 8 AM but did have some day shifts). Airplanes flew above us from everywhere on their way to Ben Guryon Airport. I took breaks to go swimming, especially before dawn when the water was like dark blue velvet and warm like the air. I sat with customers, drank and smoked and played backgammon with them, flirted with cute boys, met some celebrities, some childhood idols: poets and writers and musicians. I ate lots of fresh watermelons and hummus, drank beer and cappuccinos and tequila. Every morning I watched the elderly Tel Avivis do their morning gymnastics on the beach, when the water was still calm and the sky blue and the air fresh and salty, untainted by car exhausts and smog. I loved every minute of it. It was the best summer of my life.

At the end of that summer, on the evening of Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year,) I stood with three other waiters and watched the sunset. It was common for us to stop everything and watch the sky or the sea. Sometimes the sky would get so crazy after sunsets, with strokes of purple or pink or orange and the clouds would arrange themselves in ways you didn’t know possible, or the moon would be especially big and glowing, and word would quickly spread between the staff and finally reach the boss who was trapped in the little booth that operated as a bar slash kitchen slash office. “You gotta see the sky!” somebody would say and he’d drop everything, a half made cappuccino or shake or whatever, and rush outside to admire it for a few minutes. The customers could wait. “I didn’t realize you were in a hurry,” he once said to a customer that complained about the slow service. Another time he recommended a restaurant more suited to the customers’ needs.
That evening, we all stood and watched the sunset. The boss treated us to a new year’s beer. We sipped the beer, basked in the warm glow of dusk and then one of us said: “I am so happy right now.” We looked at each other, we were all smiling and we all looked beautiful in that forgiving light and soft breeze. I was so happy I wanted to cry. It was a moment of pure joy. At work. In the service industry.

At the end of that summer Tel Aviv’s local magazine published a little review about Banana Beach. The city’s best kept secret – they called it. “The service is not great, the food is not amazing, but it’s the best place to hang out in the city, and now that the summer is over – we decided to let you in on the secret.”

Banana Beach changed after that first summer. It became immensely popular, then turned into an empire. The owners are not as lenient as they used to be and I’m pretty sure you can no longer drink with the customers or eat free ice cream from the freezer. We were their trial run. They learned from the mistakes they made with us. It is now a smoothly operated machine, which is probably why the following summer when I returned from India they didn’t hire me again. I thought my charm and my popularity amongst the customers would outweigh my waitressing skills and tendency to slack. It didn’t.

In recent years, Banana Beach opened a few more locations. I figured Akhziv would be perfect. Akzhiv beach is one of the most beautiful beaches in Israel, a favourite location for weddings, ideal for wedding photographs, with its wet rocks and little islands and lagoons. It also has some ancient ruins and more recent ruins you can visit. It holds all kind of fun festivals in the summer. Back when I was a teenager it was home to a bohemian artists, long haired hippies and runaway teens.

But when Sean and I made it there, on a Monday afternoon in mid February, the place was closed and abandoned. I peeked from the gate and learned that they expanded their operation and had some wicker bungalows for rent. But the whole beach was fenced and deserted.

Now if you know me at all you’d know that soon enough we were jumping the fence. After all, I’m a known trespasser. If you hang out with me long enough you’re bound to end up at a fancy hotel’s swimming pool (a hobby of mine,) crash a party (last time I scored free shots and free lobster while at it). I figured we’ll get in and take some photos so by the time the guards come we’ll be gone.

It was paradise, just what I needed to clear my head. White long sandy beach with no footsteps except for birds and dogs. And the water was not as cold as I remembered. I touched it with my hand and found myself wondering why Israelis avoid swimming in the winter! It was warmer than Vancouver’s water in the summer and I swim in that! (Sure, I’m a big baby about it, and take 30 minutes to immerse myself completely but still!) “My baby is Canadian,” Sean said proudly when I commented on that. I realized he was right. When I lived here, I used to walk the seawall in the winter and look at the crazy tourists and Russian immigrants in the water in awe. Now I’m thinking of joining them!

We finished our journey taking a scenic road up mount Avtalion. Back when I was living in the north, I happened to visit the villages scattered on this mountain several times to do interviews with artists, healers and entrepreneurs who lived in them. It became one of my favourite places in the Galilee. We got there just as the sun was setting over the fertile Bikat Bet Netofa. A patchwork quilt in shades of green and brown was spread from one side of the valley to the other. It was magnificent.

It seems like every time I travel in my country I travel in time, revisiting my old self. No wonder it can be emotional at times. My friend Carlin once said that whenever she goes home it feels like everything is her, the place is her. The smell, the sights, the air in Israel. It’s all me. It’s like I’m a part of the place as much as the place is a part of me. Everywhere we went I saw me, we passed a bus stop in Haifa where I once stood there and cried over my relationship, another bus stop where I hitchhiked as a soldier, surprising my boyfriend at his army base. Had coffee at a mall where I had my first job in the north, selling some product in a booth (I was a complete failure.) We drove under a bridge where I once kissed someone I thought I loved.

I’m trying to not be so sentimental. It is foolish, I know. And tiring to read. My mom is talking about selling our house. Once she does it they’re going to demolish it and build an apartment building on its ruins. “I can’t keep all this stuff for you,” she says, “I won’t have space.” So I spent today going through my things and purging mercilessly, practicing letting go. No more holding on to my second grade cut hair, the skirt I once really liked, the dozens of belly shirts I bought at the Goa flea market and would never wear, broken pieces of jewelry that once meant something, the hundreds of notes, letters, memorabilia from traveling. I have to let go.
Sometimes I wish you could do that with memories. Give them away, free some space. Maybe that’s what writing your memories does. Once it’s on paper, you’re letting it go.

I’m lying a little bit. I don’t think I really want to see them go. I just don’t want the ache that comes with them, that pinch, like hunger. I want my memories to be like favourite movies, something I can revisit and enjoy, then let go without a thought.
I might be asking for too much.