L is for Liebesgeschichte -- Love Story

(Brought to you from Tel Aviv for a change!)

If cities were lovers, Tel Aviv would be the one that got away.

I lived here on and off—like any torrid love affair—between 2009 and 2015. For two of those years, I was also with my then-future husband (yeah, I know, the metaphor’s starting to get complicated).

I first moved here when I was ABD—“all but dissertation,” in academic speak, meaning I’d finished my coursework and exams but still had to write the darned thing. I’d received a grant that let me live wherever I wanted. Lonely and miserable in blustery Chicago, I set my sights on Tel Aviv.

Tel Aviv and I had instant chemistry. I made more friends in my first week here than I’d made over four years in Chicago. I started dancing tango, doing long early morning yoga practices, spending Friday mornings at the beach, and meeting friends for lazy coffee dates.

We were so young and relaxed!

After finishing my dissertation, I accepted a postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Toronto. What followed was a period of mourning. And then I met Erol. You could say he was my rebound—if we’re still sticking with the metaphor—and he didn’t mind being part of a bit of a ménage à trois (okay, now the metaphor’s definitely getting out of hand). In 2013, he joined me on his first sabbatical when I was offered another postdoc, this time at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I returned to Tel Aviv with Erol in tow.

Our time together in Tel Aviv was magical. And although we got married soon after—even bigger magic—we both grieved leaving the city. We kept dreaming of when we’d return.

(Full disclosure: our current sabbatical in Freiburg was originally supposed to be spent in Tel Aviv. But because of this terrible, seemingly never-ending war, we pivoted last minute. No regrets. Freiburg has offered its own kind of magic.)

Of course, like a former lover whose cigarette-smoking once seemed edgy but now shows up in the form of bad teeth and pallid skin, Tel Aviv is revealing its cracks. The political reality is grim. Fifty-nine hostages are still trapped in Gaza. Just yesterday, Shin Bet chief Ronen Bar revealed that Netanyahu, tyrant in the making, had tried to weaponize the security service against the protest movement—turning it, essentially, into his personal Stasi. Hamas is degraded but still standing. Both Israelis and Palestinians are still suffering.

Memorial to the victims of October 7 at Dizengoff Square

The streets of Tel Aviv are as seductive and familiar as ever, but now they’re also plastered with grief and rage—graffiti, posters, calls to bring the hostages home, calls to refuse military service. I’ve been here countless times but I’ve never seen anything like it before.

People are grieving and traumatized. They’re also just trying to get on with their lives. Israelis are remarkably good at that.

The joy of Nutella on matzah

Passover was a small, intimate affair this year—just the four of us plus my parents, doing an abridged version of the Haggadah. The highlight was the kids’ Moses and Pharaoh skit, which somehow became more about coordinated accessories than storytelling: Rafi as Pharaoh, bare-chested and dripping in my mom’s jewels; Leo as Moses, with Spider-Man affixed to his staff for some extra Red Sea–parting power. It was wonderful to be together.

Of course, we've also been spending time with cousins and friends—and more than anything, it's those connections that keep drawing us back.

The boys have been loving their time with their grandparents and are thrilled about swim lessons with the incomparable Max—Marvel superhero lookalike and hands-down best swim instructor on the planet.

Bathing Beauties

We spend most of our mornings in the pool, but we've also managed two beach outings: once on a cooler day to collect shells, and once on a hot day to play in the sand and waves.

Metzitzim Beach

We’ve eaten at a few restaurants (the food here really can’t be beat). Poor Leo was so hungry on the way to one—“My feet are tired. I’m too weak!”—that when his pasta with tomato sauce arrived just two minutes after ordering, he was elated. He’d just begun gleefully sprinkling parmesan with his delicate little fingers when a rocket alarm sounded—the signal to head to the bomb shelter. “But my pasta!” he moaned as I scooped him up and ran.

In the shelter, an older woman admired Leo’s red hair. I said he was starving and just wanted to get back to his pasta. Without missing a beat, she turned to him and said, “Well, you tell your mom that Gali says you also get dessert and a surprise!” One of the many things I love about this country.

Thanks to my parents, Erol and I even got to sneak out for a couple of kid-free dates. My folks hooked us up with tickets to a Batsheva Dance Company performance by the renowned choreographer Ohad Naharin at the Suzanne Dellal Center for Dance. This incredible theater complex is located in the charming neighborhood of Neve Tzedek, the first Jewish neighborhood built outside the ancient city of Jaffa in the early 20th century.

Slightly less young, still relaxed (sans kids)

After the terrific show and a lovely dinner, we decided to walk back to my parents’ apartment—about 5 km north. We strolled through the entire city: along trendy Rothschild Blvd, past Hostage Square, past Rabin Square, past our old apartment in Kikar Hamedina, which now boasts three staggeringly high residential towers. Amazing how much is still being built and renovated amidst the chaos. The pull of sultry Tel Aviv is just that strong.

At the Israel Museum

Yesterday, all six of us took a day trip to Jerusalem. The Israel Museum had a stunning exhibit of surrealist art—no small feat in the current political climate, given that many collectors and institutions pulled their loans in protest. But you’d never know it. The show was beautifully curated, rich, and cohesive.

We also stopped by the Old City to show the kids the Western Wall—believed to be the last remnant of the Temple—and wandered through the shuk. The market felt a little forlorn: so many shopkeepers, so few tourists to buy their hamsas, crosses, and tsatskes. We tried to do our part. I suggested the boys bring back some olive wood camels for their friends in Freiburg, like I used to do when I was a kid. But they haven’t quite grasped the spirit of gift-giving, and were far more interested in souvenirs for themselves. They eventually settled on a gaudy, rhinestone-encrusted turtle and elephant—almost certainly made in India or China. Oh well.

At the shuk (market) in Jerusalem's Old City

Still, there’s nothing like that hot, dry Jerusalem air, or the way the golden light catches the soft beige stone. Such a beautiful, tortured place.

Leo and Savta Julie in front of the Western Wall

We have three more days in Tel Aviv before heading back to Freiburg. Being here stirs everything up—love, grief, longing, frustration. But I’m deeply grateful to walk these sun-bleached streets again, to let the boys feel the heat and heart of this city. It’s a joy to see them connect with the place where my dad was born, and to watch their bond with him and my mom grow even stronger.

Maybe “the one that got away” isn’t quite right. Maybe Tel Aviv is the one that keeps coming to me—flawed yet irresistible.

My dad walking home