I marveled at the hashgachah that had brought this driver back to Tel Aviv that day, and had brought me to his taxi
I
was walking down Rechov Arlozorov in Tel Aviv, heading for the beach. But within minutes, it became obvious that I couldn’t walk a mile in the summer heat. Luckily, Arlozorov is a main artery in the city, and as soon as I gestured, a taxi pulled over.
“Chavakuk,” I said as I got in. Not “Rechov Chavakuk,” or “hachof hanifrad,” or any other word with the giveaway resh that would instantly expose me as an American and put me, and my wallet, at the mercy of the driver.
He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You live in Tel Aviv?”
The meter was on now, so I felt safe answering in my American Hebrew, “Not now, although many years ago I actually stayed in this neighborhood for several months.”
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