"Philippe, pass the baguette please." The units in Tel Aviv's luxury Neve Tzedek tower are owned almost exclusively by French part-time residents
My landlord wants to sell my apartment. It’s not the most fab pad in Tel Aviv, but it’s in a perfect location; the current real estate market is pure hell (very little availability, insanely high rents); and I’ve already moved three times over this very traumatic year (evil, evil landlords) so the thought of having to look for a new place tends to make my breathing shallow and difficult.
But my landlord assures me that I need not be stressed (and here I picture him smirking into his mobile phone) because he is marketing to rich French Jews who are looking for a long term investment. This is bullshit, of course. He is marketing to rich French Jews who want an “appartement de vacances” in Tel Aviv. And my slumlord thinks they will be willing to pay $220,000 for a sub-divided, tiny 1-bedroom unit that has neither solar heater, nor balcony nor even cooking gas.That’s about $30,000 over market value, even for super-expensive Tel Aviv.
Unlike American and British Jews, who prefer to buy their overpriced holy land real estate in Jerusalem, the kosher froggies really love Tel Aviv.
Naturally, the people of Tel Aviv reciprocate this love by overcharging them and badmouthing them. Yes indeed, Israelis are accusing French people of being ill mannered. Please don’t snort like that. You will leave spittle marks on your computer monitor, and those are difficult to remove.
So yesterday yet another French-Israeli real estate agent brought over yet another potential purchaser to inspect the place. The potential purchaser is a 30-something, olive-skinned guy who, despite the summer heat and humidity, wears a perfectly pressed blue-and-white striped shirt with french cuffs (naturally) and highly polished black loafers. He is also well-marinaded in eau de expensive cologne. His name is Aime (I swear).
Aime speaks to me in French (“alors, Lee-ZA, t’es canadienne? De Montreal?) without bothering to inquire whether or not I speak the language. He thinks the apartment is mignon. He asks if I live here with my copain. Then he asks whether I’d be interested in renting a much bigger apartment that he recently purchased in Jaffa. No, I said, but I have a friend who might be interested.
Ah oui, he answers. Let me take your number and I’ll call you a bit later so that we can make an appointment.
Two hours later, the cheeky little pervert calls and asks me to come to the apartment alone – unless my friend is interested in a threesome.
I think I’m going to tell my landlord to compensate me for showing the place. Enough of this polite Canadian Jewish girl thing. It does not serve me well, apparently.
