Late one afternoon last week, my 7-year-old and I set out on a wee bicycle jaunt through Tel Aviv to mark the official start of Spring Break.
Crossing one of the city’s main Boulevards – Ben Gurion named for Israel’s 1st Prime Minister – we passed kiosk cafes, juice stands, parents with toddlers playing in mini-playgrounds and other cyclists also enjoying the mild weather.
As we neared the beach we heard strains of live music – mostly drumming really. Exciting! We neared the source and discovered a percussionist and trumpet player whooping it up, the trumpet case open at their feet exhibiting a fair amount of donated coins. We paused to listen and watch. The spectacle was a rarity in the city. A treat.
“Mom, do you think they have homes? I want to give them some money,” my concerned son queried.
I guffawed out loud. Because this was the two-man band:
Honey, they’re okay I reassured.
Clearly the formative years of his life spent in “teeming with homeless” San Francisco have shaped some of my son’s notions.