I’ve lived in Israel quite some time now and, with the passing of the years, have become increasingly accustomed to the culture of the Levant. I’m familiar with raised voices (which elsewhere would be considered the precursor to a punch-up but in Israel are just the norm in terms of communication). I’m extra careful when crossing the roads, because of chaotic driving. I guard my place carefully in every queue (line) I’m in because, unlike in the country of my birth, queues don’t count for much here!
I’m much more direct in my questions to people (although I’m still in the habit of saying please and thank you very often), complain incessantly (particularly about the political situation), have swapped vintage cheddar for cottage cheese and Granny Smith apples for watermelon. Oh, and I’m well accustomed to the fact that Sunday is the first day of the working week!
But however long I live in Israel (and it might be for many more years) there will still be another ‘home’ for me - the country of my birth.
Arik Einstein (one of Israel’s most beloved singers and a personal favourite of mine) wrote a song which became so famous that El Al sometimes still play it when flights land. It’s called Kama Tov Shebata Habeita which, translated means, ‘How Good it is You’ve Come Home.’ And this is the song whose lyrics have been swirling in my head for the last couple of weeks.
After two long years, I have finally returned to the city of my birth - London. Since the age of 18, though I travelled the world (rainforests in Latin America, mountains in India and Nepal, deserted islands in East Africa and morning strolls through the streets of Manhattan and San Francisco) and lived abroad for long periods, I’ve still returned to England at least once a year.
Whether I flew in from the West Coast or the Middle East, there was still that sense of ‘longing’ that came over me as I boarded the aeroplane, staring out of the window whilst others slept or watched shows on their tablets, knowing that within hours I’d be viewing green fields and a view of the Thames winding its way through central London.
When I landed, familiar sights and sounds would greet me. ‘Welcome to Heathrow’ signs, the familiar red and blue logo of the Underground, escalators where you stood on the right and walked on the left, and the different regional accents I love so much. And in the city itself, things that are so quintessentially English - local pubs, crumpets for sale at the supermarket, the Evening Standard newspaper, ‘Mind the Gap’ announcements on the tube, the BBC news and Radio 4’s ‘Desert Island Discs’ and…well, so many more things that I grew up with.
This time I fly into Gatwick and the first thing that greets me is two wonderful murals of Queen Elizabeth, comprised of thousands of small photographs, in honour of the Platinum Jubilee. It’s a nice touch, as I make my way to Passport Control.
And it takes no time at all to realise much I’ve missed the place. After the pandemic kept me from the city of my birth for two long years, I now realise that I’ve never loved - or appreciated - London more. The music, the art, the culture. So many theatres (West End and fringe), so many exhibitions, so many museums (and almost all of them are free). The bridges that link north with south - Tower, Millennium, Waterloo, Battersea. And the Thames itself, with its murky waters (whatever the weather, they’re never clear, because of the sediment).
The list is endless. Boats moored by the Embankment, on which you can drink gin and tonics on long, summer evenings. The London Eye, turning so slowly that its movement is barely perceptible. The endless parks, in which I could walk for days without becoming bored and the Regent’s Canal, which meanders from east to west, from gritty Hackney to swanky Little Venice.
The restaurants - dim sum in Chinatown, Southern Indian masala dosas in Drummond Street, bowls of Vietnamese pho in Hackney. The coffee shops - Mansion Bertaux and Patisserie Valerie in Soho (where I’ve been eating pear tarts and millefeuille since I was 21), pistachio eclairs at Stoke Newington’s Belle Epoque and scones and jam at Beas of Bloomsbury.
London buses, the familiar red double deckers that I adored as a child, climbing up stairs in the hope of finding a seat at the very front, so I could observe everything from on high. The Docklands Light Railway, which thrilled my nephew as a child, as it was driverless. The markets - Portobello for antiques, Columbia Road for flowers, Brick Lane for vintage and Camden for pure nostalgia (my father took me there when I was knee-high).
And old friends. Friends I’ve missed more than I knew. Friends from decades back - from work, from the Jewish community I was a part of, from university. When I see them again, gratitude wells up deep inside me. We’ve seen each other through good times and bad, attended the same parties, weddings, funerals and cocktail bars. We’re all looking older but…it doesn’t matter. We are connected by the unshakable bonds of friendship.
There are many things I need to ‘do’ in London - draw up financial papers, go to the bank, see my dentist, shop for things I can’t find in Israel. But, as of now, none of these things matter. All I want to do is drink tea, wander the streets, see friends and savour the atmosphere. And who can put a price on a mother’s face, when you knock on her door, unannounced, after so long, telling her you’d love a cup of tea?
She didn’t say it but she didn’t have to. “How good it is that you’ve come home” I know she feels. And I feel it too.