It’s been 13 days since I left Israel, and the sadness hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s heavier now. I wake up in the morning and, for a split second, forget where I am. Then it hits me: I’m not in Tel Aviv. I’m not walking down Dizengoff with a falafel in hand. I’m not sitting with friends at midnight on a beach that never really sleeps. I’m here, far away, and the emptiness settles in all over again.

I joke with myself that maybe I just need falafel, shawarma, or a bag of Bamba. But the truth is, it’s not just the food I miss; it’s what the food represents. Every bite in Israel feels like more than sustenance; it’s a heartbeat, a memory, a moment of community. Eating here feels like eating alone.

What gnaws at me most, though, are the memories that live between the big moments. Long afternoons stretched lazily across Tel Aviv’s beaches, watching the sun melt........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)