Get Thee to a Nunnery

I've been very negative recently. I would like to write about something good, something indisputably good. I can only think of one such thing: The Minzar.

Is it the best bar in the world? Is it, rather, the most boring default destination for when nobody knows where to go? A true Tel-Avivian hears the words: "So let's just go to the Minzar" at least twice a week. Nevertheless, I opt for the first definition. The Minzar is the best bar in the world. The Minzar is the best place in this city. The Minzar is home. The Minzar is mother, ok, I'm getting carried away. No more Taybe on tap for me.

Let's tell this story as a story should be told, lets begin with once upon a time.

Once upon a time, in an ancient eon called the early 90s, when Sheinkin St. was still the hub of the dangerous, black clad bohemia, there were three bars worth mentioning in the city. The first was called the "Gloola" (pill) the second the "Midbar" (desert) and the third was the "Minzar" (Monastery or abbey).

I got to sip my first underage beer at the Gloola. My friend summoned the guts and asked some girl with black nail polish to buy us two pints. He called her "auntie", as that was the quaint slang of those bygone days "Hey auntie, buy us a couple?". I was surprised at how readily our newfound aunt assumed her criminal role.

We left the Gloola experiencing a dizziness previously unknown to either of us, pissed in an alleyway and started walking north joyfully. Soon enough we got beat up by two drunk English tourists, who thought they heard us swearing at them. We escaped them into a bar. That bar was the Minzar.

Actually no, that bar wasn't the Minzar. It was some other random place that - like the Gloola and Midbar - failed to survive the passing of the auntie years. I'm just desperately looking for an excuse to write about the sole survivor of those times, a seemingly charmless bar, perfectly undecorated, with bare tables spread around the alleyway about its entrence, with its one bathroom (of two) that only features a pissoir, all within choking distance of Allenby.

Call it Patriotism or Zionism, but I need to truly embrace at least one thing on our slender map. Love letters don't really call for excuses, I'll try to compose a quick one right now, and just get it off my chest.

Dear Minzar,

Is it because you are such casual place that I can practically visit you in my underwear? Is it because despite how casual you are, I once found myself sitting in your so called terrace, right next to a group that obviously just left an opera gala?

Is it because you serve Palestinian beer, making me feel that I'm fighting for a cause even as I'm getting myself silly drunk in the very napel of the bubble? Is it because besides this Palestinian beer you also serve that strong Belgian Maredsous that knocks everyone out for the evening?

Is it the wonderful artichoke and feta salad? Is it the veal sausages? is it the very fact that no one would expect a joint like yourself to produce anything better than a little bowl of peanuts, and yet you're one of my favorite restaurants in town? Is it Ari's spicy wings that nearly fried me alive from within just before the management made him subdue them? (I loved them just the way they were. ahhh!) Is it the pickles in the back room that can be subtly stolen when the beautiful blond waitress isn't looking?

Is it that beautiful blond waitress? Is it the equally beautiful not blond waitress who used to wear dreadlocks? Is it the other, even less blond waitress with the dark retro look? is it the other, fourth beautiful waitress? is it Ari and his lovely whiskers? Is it already five in the morning?

Is it the night Stellina cried on my shoulder tears that came directly from her broken heart? Is it that night that the Danish girl recognized me though we haven't seen each other for an entire decade? Is it the night Itka composed her beautiful crazy poem amidst all the noise and loud music in the main room?

Is it that our comfort zone is so small we can cross it in two leaps? (mind the stairs!)

Whatever it is, Minzar, I love you and all the monks and nuns who walk your narrow cloisters. I drink to you and to a city that only becomes itself after dark, and then grows more and more beautiful with every sip, every cig, every sound of laughter.

(all photos are from the Minzar's Facebook fan page)

The Underground Art Scene

We left the region of Champagne yesterday and are gladly in Paris. Still, the journey was so fine and bubbly, that I must pay Champagne another tribute.

In other words - there's a place I must rave about: a castle with a pile of supermarket trollies in front of it.

The founder of the Maison de Pommery died in some obscure 19th century war, soon after beginning work on the winery's maze of cellars. His wife, Louise Pommery, was patron of the arts in the city of Reims and commissioned large scale works to be hung in the tunnels, some of which are cavernous, while others are cathedral-like in proportions. In 2002 the winery was bought from the Louis Vuitton conglomerate by a local champage mogul. He decided to fulfill Vauve Pommery's vision of an art palace and turn the fully functional production cellars into a contemporary art gallery.

Art welcomes you even when overground. The centerpiece in this photo of the winery's lobby was created by visiting Reims schoolchildren, once they emerged from the cellars.

Then begins the descent. The estate has 18 kilometers of underground tunnels. The first few are filled with art, with exhibitions that change yearly each June. The current one was curated by Fabrice Bousteau, the editor of Beaux Arts magazine. It features works from each member country of the EU and discusses the concept of European culture. First there's a sound installation. A line from a song by Gainsbourg plays as you descend the 160 stairs to the underground labyrinth.

Then there are tunnels over tunnels of contemporary European art to experience. Here's my absolute favorite: a work by Céleste Boursier-Mougenot which allows birds to play the electric guitar. Mandarin birds, seeds, amps and instruments were placed in a warmly lit tunnel for magical purposes. It works, they play beautifully.

Birds are not the only creatures in the cellars. The diagonal racks that allow champagne residue to sift into the necks of the bottles make perfect home for spiders as large as the palm of my hand.

You walk and walk, it's endless. Terike Haapoja's lightbulb throws shadows of nonexistant objects on the walls.

João Pedro Vale's sunken ship rests beneath an enormous wooden bas-relief comissioned by the Vauve Pommery.

I also liked works by Rada Boukova, Abigail Lazkoz, Katrina Neiburga, Adel Abidin, Su-Mei Tse, Anette-Mona Tchisa and Lucia Tkasova, but something has to be said for the art lying there in moldy bottles. The sharp flash of my camera gives it that extra conceptual element - making it look somewhat like a Beuys installation, though it most certainly won't taste like one.

In Champagne

Note on the last photo: at 183 centimeters, Itka is a tall girl, but she's not that tall. The bottle at her feet is a small 37.5 centiliter one. I threw it into the shopping cart with the toothpaste and oranges at the grocery store. It happens to be Henri de Verlaine, one of the best Champagnes you'll ever taste.

You know you are in France when you're Impulse-shooping for Champagne. We are in Epernay, completely surrounded by the Champagne vinyards. Champagne is like water here. You can literally drink it for free by visiting the wineries. We're doing a lot of that, researching for a travel article on the region before hitting the big city. There we'll probably have to settle on equally inexpensive red wine from the Rhone, Burgundy or Bordeaux. Such a bitch life is.

Moscow-Petushki-Death

Due to a severe attention deficit problem, I find reading novels nearly impossible. I can write them, but not read them. In conversations where people exchange and compare literary adventures, I sit and nod, jealous.

But sometimes it happens, a book comes along and says: you can't read me? no problem, I'll force you. I will reveal to you each time you open me so much about the world, I'll make you laugh so hard and scare you so effectively that you won't be able to give me up. One such book is "Moscow-Petushki" by Venedict Yerofeyev. It took me nearly a month to go through its mere 212 pages, but I did it.

Moscow-Petushki is a "Russian drinking novel". Thus it was presented to me by Masha and Yonathan who lent it to me. In fact, it is a great work of late modernism, one that grabs Kafka, walks him one step further, tickles him and then kicks him off a cliff. Yerofeyev's book is a cult favorite, written in the Soviet Union during the the 70s. The text had to be kept away from authorities due to its deeply subversive nature, and was first published in a Russian language literary review in Israel. Thank god for Zionism.

The book is at one time as rustic as Robert Johnson's "Dust my Broom" and as profound as Bach's "Mattheus Passion". On one page is a recipe for a drunkards' coctail that contains no actual drink element, only nail polish and shampoo. On the next is an incredibly delicate allusion to Dante. I open the book randomly and happen directly on the following phrases, spoken by a female train passenger: "God knows where my teeth are, I am an educated woman and walk around toothlessly, like that. He knocked them out because of Pushkin. Here, I happened to overhear that you're having a literary debate. I thought to myself: I should come and sit with them and tell them how thanks to Pushkin I got my skull fractured and lost four front teeth."

Such is the plot: Venia takes the train from Moscow to a small town two hours away. He drinks the whole time, talks to some people, pretty much all of them miserable sorts, thinks a lot, hellucinates a bit. That's basically it.

Somehow. This exceeding simplicity allows Yerofeyev to penetrate us and touch us where it hurts the most. All of our fears are one fear: the fear of death. Everything we fear is a form or manifestation of death. Venia is galloping towards death on both an actual train and a train of thoughts, telling very funny stories, charming the reader and revolting him as he does so. Forget stairway to heaven, this is railway to hell. Literal death is not really the issue. Venia has death on his breath. He lives in a state of part death, two parts vodka Kubanskaya and 4 drops of nail polish.

It reminds me of the time my friend Naor found, in a newspaper film review, what he considered to be a perfect definition for life: "A few good jokes in a sea of boredom and obscenity". When life begins to resemble death too closely, as it does more and more with the advance of Moscow-Petushki's locomotive, it is life that we grow to fear. This isn't how I view the world usually, but I've been there, of course. I, too, sometimes find myself surrounded by too much death, and if only I had Yerofeyev's shiny mind, would have been the proud father of a very dark book. Even now as I write this, in full comfort and peace of mind, there's death in everything around me, from my near inability to read books, to the cup of tea I'm sipping, sugarless and dark. There's life there too, but focusing on that makes for a far less captivating read.

An Evening with St. Pete

I cannot disclose the details nor show photos of my hitchhiking journey. They must remain an exclusive for the newspaper that will carry the article. I will tell you, though, that it went very well, too well, miraculously well. 48 hours (including two nights of sleep) after standing with my thumb up in Venice's Piazzola Roma, I was in a gas sation on the outskirts of Helsinki.

I ended up four days early for my Finnish appointements, and so decided to head on to Russia, arriving in St. Petersburg at night. It was a good decision. The lights on Nevsky Prospect were blinding and the sidewalks filled with elegantly dressed, beautiful women. I had a crepe with caviar on the street, then headed for a hostel to sleep.

The following day was cold.


The afternoon was colder, but the hostel supplied fine company: Piti, a landscape architect from Bangkok, fresh off the Trasn-Siberian railway.


We went into a canal-side dive for a drink and some food and met the local clientele. One guy was an art museum to rival the Hermitage.

His friend was a proper Nazi.

"We are getting out of here without a fist fight," I whispered on Piti's ear. The guys actually knew I'm Jewish (I never hide it), and my friend is obviously Asian, yet somehow it worked. We all made brilliant chums, shot down several rounds of vodka and beer and left with hugs.

Outside was dreary and getting drearier.

So we went to the Ballet.The Mariinsky company was presenting three works by George Balanchine, all set to non-narative musical scores. There was Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings, the staple work of the New York Ballet. Piti almost fainted by how good it was.


There was Ravel's "la Valse"

and Bizet's symphony in C. "This is the best, most beautiful show I've seen in my life", said Piti.

Outside, the snow ceased and a random pretty girl handed us a baloon. A new night was ahead.