"...A good meal stays in your memory. The body it leaves fast, but a memory slow". Meir Shalev

The first time I tried to describe it, I said: Water melons. Whenever I close my eyes, I remember the smell. Along the coastline and farther the sea smells of water melons and I don't know how to explain this. The smell of Tel Aviv, I grab a fresh veggie juice at a less crowded of two competing stands at intersection of the Ben Gurion Dizingoff st. The other one claims to be the favourite of the Nr. 1 national export - Bar Rafaeli - who seems to work inwards these days every bus stop is decorated with her. I try to be less obvious and try the remains of the faintest Hebrew I once had. Note: An average Israeli worker speaks better English than my university professor in Germany and therefore will use every possibility to show you that.

“What does mami (sweetheart) want?” And by that he means me. He's not being over-familiar. Hebrew - a very affectionate language. "Wait for me achi (brother of mine)" would call an elderly, nicely dressed gentlemen trying to catch a bus will call for. And as Mami'd the regular today, and so he repeats after me, while collecting the ingredients:
"Celery, orange, carrot and?..I stumble Rootbeet!"
“Beetroot", - says he and proceeds to the juicing machine.

And this is when I realize I got it all wrong. Everything deceits here. Everyone is something and a little bit something else.

I have 2 to kill and following the melon scent I walk past the Frishman and Gordon beaches (getting a fabulous sunburn), when finally arriving at the Hilton beach. I take a break to watch the sea. From afar I spot a slender, tall and tanned guy on a boat and automatically start playing my usual game called "Guess where he comes from". I am my only rival but this time we both agree on Marokko. My clue: the tan and the singing. Everyone does in Tel Aviv. Even policemen. I can hear that but can't make out the melody. When he finally passes me, my jaw drops. He is singing at a very high volume a cartoon OST from my childhood, every 80’s Soviet kid's favourite.

It's 2 pm. The sun is high, my blood pressure is low. At the beach bar I go for an overpriced shakshuka when I start watching my table neighbor, having a phone conversation with 4 people in 4 different languages. French, English, Hebrew then German. All four - fairly well.

'Can I ask you something?' which of this languages is your mother tongue?

He lingers. He has no straight answer. Neither do I. Suddenly I remember what I forgot earlier. Avateah! Watermelon! Not beetroot. Not rootbeet.