I’m in Tel Aviv, walking the same streets I did five years ago. The northern part of the city, near the marina. I recognize the park, the steps down to the beach. It’s late, but then again that’s the only way I know this city. Some thirty six hours ago I left Atlanta. There was a stop back home in Virginia to switch luggage on my way from DCA to Dulles. A few hours in Istanbul’s airport (before the terror attack). Now I’m here, and it’s well after midnight. But with cousins and a Goldstar beer to welcome me, all the travel recedes into a painless blur. Another round, a few more stories to tell before bed.

When it’s time to sleep, I keep the broad sliding glass door to the balcony open. I’m on the tenth floor, facing the sea and the trade routes that birthed Western civilization. The surf below me is just barely audible and as the overcast of the marine layers envelops the coast at just about the time my dreams to the same to me.

Then I’m awake too early. The air is full of moisture and energy and the light, dull as it is through the fog, beckons me to the world.

And so I’m back again. Back in Tel Aviv and back in Israel and finally back to writing. This trip was in April, but I plan to recount it in roughly chronological order. From there, I’ll drift back and forth in time but try to be more diligent in my application of (figurative) pen to (figurative) paper.