Dreaming out loud

A young, handsome, slightly looking like an Arab, hipster met me in the city center.
“How are you, got used to the place already?” he friendly greeted me in English, however with a light Russian accent.
“Hope, you know how to ride a bicycle?” smiling, hipster pointed out on the green bikes right near him. Suddenly he jumped on one of them and darted away, living behind “Let’s go!”
I did not have any other options except rushing after him. For a little while we simply were riding our bikes by small shops, street coffee places, by impulsive sellers of spices and by young people in shocking military uniforms with UZI over their shoulders. Consequently we reached the seafront. Hipster stopped. In front of us there were a destroyed concrete building and a dark blue sea at the backstage. Unknown before anxiety and pain distorted the face of my guide.
“What is this?” I dared to break the silence, pointing at the construction and the memorial next to it.
“It used to be a disco club. In 2001 twenty teenagers died here during the terrorist attack.”
I was on the verge of tears:
“So those young people in uniforms – the guards who protect the city from terrorists?”
“Well, those are conscript soldiers traveling through the city or going back home from the everyday services.” Looking at the young man in the uniform crossing the street the guide continued. “They do not pose any threat to civilians, just a part of our everyday life.”
We again vanished in the silence. Suddenly the guide playfully jumped on the bicycle and rushed after the guy in shorts driving by on a scooter.
“Let’s catch him up!”
We draw on the scooter driver in the downtown in the middle of the marching crowd.
“Dear, we have to leave our bikes here and dive into the crowd. Thousands of people came to the streets today protesting against overall expensive living conditions,” said the guide.
We started to walk with them. Finally, stopped not far away from the stage. Here I was, a foreigner by passport and mentality, standing hand-to-hand with Israelis, Arabs, Russians, religious and laic, youngsters and adults in a peaceful struggle for the social justice. My friend with all his care protected me from the fear of the crowd and spite, language, opinions and religion differences, making me feel myself local not only by blood but also by inner feeling. In a moment I understood that beside me was no longer a young hipster, but an adult, confidant male with the name – the city TEL AVIV.