I'm living above a spice market where cumin and turmeric are piled in neat foot-tall pyramids. Mannequins are everywhere: staring into my bedroom, cuddling in a silver pile on a rooftop visible from my kitchen.
I've seen the sun sink like a dying ember into the Mediterrannean, spun my poi near one of the apparently abundant drum circles on the beach, and watched hundreds of bats flap and screech in one of the converted Arab buildings in the old city of Jaffo from whose ceiling hung 3 elks' pelvic bones tied with rope, and on whose floor stood life size sculptures of people made out of bark.
I've ridden my bike along a river in the north of Tel Aviv, lost the path and ended up in the suburbs. But I always find my way back.
Each day, sometimes multiple times a day, I've come home with a visible line where my socks were protecting my legs from the sand of the beach, or the dry dirt of the biking paths. The tile floor here is gritty with it, already.
