Ramat Gan, Garden Heights in Hebrew, a slice of Eden, lush and dripping with nectar, scented by orange blossom and lilac. At night I walked in this balmy land, peering behind hedges and into homes, through windows of golden light. Friday night was especially sweet, the night air laced with coffee and cardamon, televisions murmuring loudly, deep, resonant voices of newsreaders in mellifluous Hebrew describing events in the lands over the borders. Crickets rasped and traffic hummed on the wide Abba Hillel street a few blocks away. One never quite loses the excitement of being in the land of Israel, even surrounded by the quotidien. Once the jackals and wolves bayed in sand dunes, and a few kilometers hence the land gives way to the azure Mediterranean. I walked further, passing under sticky date trees and old fashioned electricity pylons, thrown up in the 1950s. I would return soon, back to my own home, where wild cats gather under the windows in search of bread and milk. But I lingered a while longer, and enjoy the pungent night. From a radio came gentle music, songs of hope and peace and love, soul music for the sabbath.
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