Friday, March 9, 2018 12:44 AM

11 PM on the first night of the weekend: from traffic on faraway roads, the rush of distant oceans. Voices from cars parked under a building on stilts still echo, blocks from there. Even fewer storefronts are open than on the Sabbath: a schnitzel joint, a tiny bistro bar, a lone falafel shop. Couples and single people wander past, unafraid; I know of no street crime in this still-small city. Behind too-bright windows, an eternal market never closes. I look inside, enter, and buy an ice-cream sandwich.