Seven Stitches in Tel Aviv
Beer and soiled clothing in the New Zion
FLORENTIN—18 JUNE 2025, 20:15 IDT.
"So many stitches!" the transgender nurse exclaimed, cutting and pulling them out of my chin.
I asked her how many. I hadn't thought to ask Mohammed of Nazareth, the Palestinian doctor who had stapled them in.
Seven, she replied. Lucky, I thought. A good number.
It happened nine days ago.
I had just returned to Tel Aviv after a solid weekend of drinking by the Sea of Galilee with Stephan, a travelling entrepreneur as German as he is minted.
The Galilee is really a lake; it borders the Golan Heights (good luck getting 'em back Syria), and is right next door to Jordan. It's quite beautiful, and visited by thousands of Christian pilgrims each year for the many miracles Jesus is said to have performed there - most famously his stroll across the water's surface.
Our intentions in the region were of a distinctly lower grade however, seeking little more than clean glassware and a compliant bartender.
After listening to Stephan's many sermons on the importance of 'a systematic approach' and 'the absence of a self-concept', I took to amusing myself first by falling into the lake itself, and then attempting to yell across it to the other side. To my drunken surprise, the distant lights on the far shore some eight miles away heard me and yelled back. Impressive acoustics - it's no wonder the gospel spread so fast in this part of the world.
Upon arriving back in Tel Aviv we were promptly invited for further beers by Matt, a larger than life Australian tethered to the Holy Land by the olympic levels of charm and guile that can only be conjured by an Israeli woman.
After a few tins of Goldstar on the beach, it was time to migrate: Happy Hour at Mike's Place had begun, and cheap beer may as well be illegal here.
Mike's Place is the unofficial US embassy in Tel Aviv - an American sports bar frequented by journos, tourists seeking refuge from the Zionist project, and ex-pats regretting their decisions.
We had only just started our second pint when Matt shat himself.
"Did I just... shit myself?" he asked aloud, his tone a mix of wonder and confusion.
Matt was wearing swimming shorts, and upon rising to inspect the damage revealed a sizeable brown stain on the cream cushion of the outdoor sofa.
Stephan and I watched in stunned silence as Matt unwrapped the lemon towelettes that had arrived to accompany his incoming plate of chicken wings and began scrubbing frenziedly at the sofa.
He completed his work with a proud smile, depositing the shit-stained wipes in the ashtray at the center of the table with a triumphant "Bosh!" and absconding to the toilet.
Mercifully, the outdoor section of the bar had only one other occupant - a blonde man in his forties facing away from us to the sea.
Turns out he was a Londoner from Bromley visiting the HQ of his employer, a tech firm servicing the music industry. There is no way he could have been oblivious to what happened. But he didn't say anything, even as Matt returned with a grin to sit across from him in his browned swimwear.
Bizarrely this bloke then invited his boss out to join us. The pair had never met in person before and they sat next to each other, shit-stained wipes in the ashtray placed perfectly between them.
Keen to proceed, Stephan bought us tickets to a nightclub in the North of the city. Matt changed his soiled clothing at his flat, stole some miniature spirit bottles at a supermarket for no reason, and we high-tailed it on some electric scooters.
Tel Aviv has more rentable electric scooters per capita than any city I've been in. Like everything here they cost a fortune, but for the oppressed minority known as drunk-drivers they remain an important refuge, a final safe-space for one to express oneself.
I arrived late at the club as not one but two of the scooters I commandeered ran out of juice. But the odyssey continued as I walked through velvet curtains to a bottle of Goldstar - and a horde of Israelis pushing 60.
Naturally, none of us had done any research on the club event itself, and it turned out this was an oldies night. Even Stephan the wizened couldn't fit in. How many wars had this crowd experienced? My Dutch courage was at maximum, but I didn't want to trigger someone's PTSD and get shot (lot of Glocks slotted down ass cracks).
Despite the age-chasm, there could be no retreat. We reverted to protocol, and embarked upon the ancient trial of 'drink until this is fun'. My journey past this point is recorded less with memories and more with Shazam recordings on my phone.
One of the notable elements of the Tel Aviv bar experience is the abundance of cannabis use. Medical marijuana has been legal in Israel since 1990, while recreational use was decriminalized in 2019.
While plenty of cosmopolitan cities have done this and reek of pot now, Tel Aviv stands apart with its toleration of smoking inside. This is illegal, but nobody gives a shit provided you have the requisite nod from bar staff. You'll even see bartenders hitting the blunt as they serve drinks, and offer it to customers that treat 'em right.
I can't stand the stuff, and stick to the honourable vice of alcohol. But this will often leave you in the minority out here.
Anyhow, the club hits closing time and we stagger out. Matt bails to assuage his raging girlfriend who thought he'd be home hours ago, while Stephan and I cane hotdogs at a conveniently placed nearby stall.
I hop onto a Lime scooter for an epic voyage home, and before you know it I've gotten into a fight with the pavement. Maybe not such a safe-space. I've taken a haymaker to the chin but I tell a concerned Stephan I'm fine, and get back on the scoot. But I've only been back on the road a few seconds before I find a grid of stars is blocking the way, and they're getting so bright I can barely see anything. I veer off to the pavement and tell Stephan I need to lie down.
Apparently I then stood frozen in a T-Pose position for over a minute, completely unresponsive, before starting to keel over.
I wake up feeling great to see Stephan on the phone to an ambulance. I'm fine, I say. I can just walk home.
He tells the ambulance not to bother, but insists I go to the hospital. We walk fifteen minutes and check in. The receptionist asks what I'm here for. I just point to my face, and an hour later Mohammed of Nazareth is stapling my chin shut.
In the nine days since, Israel has decided it can't wait for MGM Studios to release the next Bond movie and they're not confident Top Gun III is happening either, so they've decided to produce regional adaptations of both in Iran. That's a story for another time however.
I got the stitches out my chin yesterday, and should be allowed to start shaving again. (That said, this is the Middle East and the locals seem to be a bit more trusting now I've got a beard going on.)
I was walking back from the hospital when the air-raid sirens went off. Rocket attack. The timing was irregular, as rocket attacks in central Tel Aviv (in my experience) have generally taken place in the late evening or at night.
The quick work of the transgender nurse had allowed me to tune in right on time to a nice 5pm webinar on the benefits of hedging bitcoin with gold. The breezy discussion of gold's enduring value through geopolitical unrest paired perfectly with the streams of Israelis charging down the street to the nearest bomb shelter.
The weather was perfect. The walk home, sublime. Another couple months here and I'll have a decent tan.
Until next time,
Jim Hawkins
The Treasure Island Times