Woke up this a.m. to the sound of overhead helicopters. Many and for a long time. So I get online to see if a suicide bombing has happened. Nada.
Eat a leisurely breakfast and with kindergarten-skipping Raphael in tow – He’s allowed; it’s his fifth birthday today, OMG! – stroll downstairs to find half a dozen police officers combing the neighborhood accompanied by aforementioned buzzing helicopters.
I hesitate. My first thought: A suicide bomber is loose in Tel Aviv; They have word and they’re searching.
“Is someone loose in the area?” (duh) I ask an officer outside our building. He shakes his head no. Liar. As if the foot patrol is simply getting out and about as part of the new “Get Fit Forces!” physical regime aimed at getting Tel Aviv’s police corps in shape. Our neighborhood happens to be THE perfect alternative to hiking trails and the helicopters help maintain that tough guy cover while they sweat it out.
That was 9:30.
Six hours later the copters are still circling. NOW I’ve found the story online and discover that lo and behold, it’s neither fitness or a bomber they’re after. Rather a mere serial rapist who escaped police escort while being transported between courthouse hearings. Our apartment is awfully close to the courthouse. Separated by a park, in fact. The same one I suspect Monsieur Rapist cut across to dodge his chaperones.
Let me see…Bomber versus Rapist…How comforting.