A man at another table pointed at me, his hand trembling, and said, “Itzak Stern sat there.”
I am distracted, and slightly repelled, by her moustache, can hardly take my eyes off it, actually…
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
He shows me the top of his tattoo, which is of a large feather. It’s well drawn, actually. It starts at the small of his back and, I don’t really want to imagine, sweeps downwards.
An elderly Dutch woman stops to talk to me. She has lived here and in London, but prefers Rotterdam now. She hates Tel Aviv. She wouldn’t have moved here if she’d been me. It’s too hot, for one, and there are too many bikes.