"Tel-Aviv: Day One"
written by Jeremy Osbern

In June of 2004, I was invited to the biggest student film festival in the world, The 10th International Student Film Festival in Tel-Aviv. The following was jotted onto a notepad, after my first full day in Israel.

After about six hours of intermittent sleep, I got off of the 777, and for the first time in my life, I walked out onto a runway, instead of a terminal.

A swarm of young people in security jackets stop me, ask me why I'm in Israel and check my bags. I pass them only to board a shuttle that carts us to the airport. First I hit customs. "Why are you in Israel? What's your business here? Read this. Sign this. Get this stamped..."

And I've cleared round two.

I walk through the next and last security gate. Here they're the most persistent:

"Why are you in Israel? A film festival? What film festival? You have a film in it? You directed the film? What's it about? When's it showing? Are the characters really in love?"

After five minutes, I'm clear. Outside, there's a group waiting for me. Signs. Roses. I'm special. Wow.

We wait a little while longer. Patrice Leconte comes off the plane. Waiting for him are the same group with signs... and roses. I guess I'm not that special any more. We wait a little while longer. I talk with him about the film he's brought to show at the festival ("Confidences trop intimes," to be released in America as "Intimate Strangers"), and find him to be an incredibly nice guy.

We drive into the city of Tel-Aviv and they start dropping us off. The famous people (like Patrice Leconte) are dropped off at the hotel, and the students are then escorted to their assorted Israeli film student hosts.

My host is a skinny guy named Tal Almog. His place is a self-described "college apartment," and he consistently goes out of his way to make me feel at home in Israel. He gave me his bed and insists on taking the couch. When we're around any other Israelis, he says, "Be nice. We have a guest. Speak English."

And the day slowly transitions into --

My first night in Israel:

The festival's rented out a place called, "Club SeaBreeze" for the night. First impression: the club is a very trendy, European-looking place. You walk into a flood of UV. The walls are black, but they're as reflective as mirrors. The bathroom is hidden behind the wall -- seriously, push in on a section of the black and you'll find yourself in a black-light lit room with a long sink. Individual, one-person bathrooms are found behind four more doors. If you go in -- you guessed it -- strobe lights!

Second impression: drinks are expensive. 20 Shekals ($5 US) for a beer. 40 Shekals (10 dollars) for a Red Bull and Vodka.

Third impression: Israelis don't drink much. They'll go to a club and have a drink, this is partly cultural, and partly because the drinks are, well, so damned expensive. In back of Club SeaBreeze there are two more bars on the way to the shoreline. I head that direction to find people pretending they're at a rave.

Fourth impression: Dancing is much different here. If you dance with a girl, you do not touch her. In fact, there are usually a couple of feet between the two of you. This is very different from the typical "bump and grind" culture of Club America, where people are more likely to be found humping vertically, usually slightly clothed. After a while, I find myself at the shoreline, watching the waves as they crash into the concrete barrier beneath my feet. And in this land, considered holy by so many people, I have something of a spiritual moment. With the bad trance-hop playing behind me, all those dancing bodies hopping, not touching, and swinging their arms to the music behind my back, I stare at the moon in a cloudless sky -- the same moon that will shine above my home eight hours from now -- and I smile.

After the club, we go out in search of "bourgess." Tal's friend, named Ben but called "Sun," is hungry -- and he drove. We drive around much more than needed. Tel-Aviv's roads are complicated and Sun yells for directions from nearby drivers or pedestrians. I tell them that this is another big difference between Israeli men and their American counterparts -- American men won't ask for directions under any circumstances. Here, they do it every other block.

We find a place that's open and each get a bourgess (bread with cheese baked inside), and it's delicious.

Back at Tal's, I can't talk him into letting me give him his bed back, so he sleeps on the floor, and Sun takes the couch.

And so ends day one.

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