Pomegranate juice

The air in Tel Aviv smells like jasmine. At the opening of the Carmel market, I bought a freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. The juice chef had fingernails blackened by juice stains. In the bright Mediterranean light the juice was crimson. I weaved through the market, bumping into people, oogling radishes as big as my fist, desparate not to spill it.

This is the view from the Intercontinental in Tel Aviv:

Jaffa is in the distance. I walked down to Jaffa on a Tuesday. There were brides and grooms everywhere taking pictures in front of the sunset and in the winding street. My taxi driver, Michael, who took me to all my business meetings told me: "Tuesday is a lucky day in the Bible. Of course in three years half of them will be divorced".