One day Jeff and I will go hunt boars, like two ancient Gaulic peasents (I'll be Obelix, being the plumper of the pair). Neither of us is a natural born killer, but Jeff is conducting a reaserch of the pork industry in Israel. It's a hands-on experience. First he spent time at a farm down south where pigs are raised supposedly for "research purposes" (the raising of pigs for meat is illegal in Jewish communities, despite large demand, which is why such "research facilities" exist). Now he wishes to join the
Palestinian-Israeli boar hunters
of the northern region bordering Lebanon. The people of Jish, an historical hilltop town by the border, have a special license to hunt boars who roam along the fence, needlessly alarming the military patrols. We've been planning to join them for a while. I've stood Jeff up for one trip. Tonight I promise that I won't do so again. We're standing on the rooftop of
which is perhaps the most seriously active arts community in the city, as well as Jeff's home address. You have to hand it to the guy. He actually wound his way from the States directly to this serious hotspot, where a fascinating talk was just given on the Chinese model for planning of rapidly urbanizing landscapes, and now beer and lambrusco are being poured aplenty to the sounds of
Signed, Sealed, Delivered
my favorite Stevie Wonder song. Too bad this is coming on right after
the loveliest girl around
has left the roof, but that's okay because
she gave me her number.
This being the shape of things, I bid farewell to Jeff, pick up my guitar and head to the street. The promenade is packed with French tourists and the wind is hardly blowing. Some fires are alight along the beach - a sight I've always loved, and the fancy hotels look down on them with the unavoidable acceptence of parents who are loving despite being bourgeois. I hail a taxi by the Dophinarium and head home to make
my nighttime feast
of eggplant, okra, squash, onion and bell pepper, all sauteed in soy sauce and peanut butter.