French Season

I am reposting last summer's post about ze French in Tel Aviv, just coz it's that time of the year again...

It's official, the French season has started. The French can be seen around the Frishman area... Every August, it's the same story: they come in herds, and invade Tel Aviv hotels, cafes, beaches, falafel stands, and mega-bars... the only language you can hear around here is French. I am actually surprised whenever I hear some hebrew...

You can spot them from 1 km away. I don't really like to be associated with them, just because I like to be different. The other day, the waitress from the beach cafe came to me and asked me, in french, if I wanted to order anything. A little bit offended, I answered in hebrew... and later asked my Israeli friend "Do I look *that* French?" to which she replied: "Honey, you're *screaming* French!" Hmmm... Ok, I didn't realize that. I thought I was one of those original, educated, sensitive, discreet, reserved, polite French, but apparently it doesn't matter. If you're French, you're French. There's nothing you can do about it. Don't get me wrong, I'm really proud to be French! How classy is it to have been born in Paris? I'm so proud to come from the country of croissant and wine, of Edith Piaf and Serge Gainsbourg, of Dior and Chanel, of Emile Zola and Victor Hugo, of romanticism and french kisses, of Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge... The country of good living and good taste. But when you see the typical summer French in Tel Aviv, you tend to forget where they come from.