Another improbable Israeli night. Coming back from a concert of hardcore bands The Girls and Midnight Peacocks (preceded by an excellent show by more contemplative rocker Assaf Ehrlich), I find my neighbors out on the lawn preparing for Sahur, the last, pre-dawn meal of a Ramadan night.
Ten minutes ago I was in a dark cellar, surrounded by headbangers in black t-shirts and rocker girls in crazy dresses. Now I'm in the open air dipping pita in yogurt among black hijabs and clouds of Nargila smoke. Where did I feel more at home? I really can't say.