The National Park, Ramat Gan

Over a quarter of a century ago, I went on a second or third date, an evening that extended into the night, at the National Park in Ramat Gan. It was a quiet night – one of those where the entire park was wrapped in soft darkness, with only street lamps scattering faint spots of light on the paths, and the water in the lake appearing almost completely black, yet calm, shimmering, almost hypnotic.

We rowed a boat on the lake, yes – even at night it was possible then. Just us, water all around, and a few distant cricket sounds. Maybe a duck that woke up for a moment. There were no mobile phones, no screens. Just conversation – face to face, without distractions.
And for some reason, I brought a camera. I don’t remember why. Maybe because that’s what I used to do, or maybe because I had a gut feeling that something special was happening. Today it sounds strange, who takes a camera on a date? But then it was natural, at least for me.

And there’s documentation too. One picture. I photographed the beginning of a life story. I probably did see ahead, even if I didn’t fully understand why.
Because half a year later we were already married.

And over the years, the park remained a part of us. When the children were born, we returned to it again and again. Almost every Saturday we were there, settling in the same regular spot, near Abraham Krinitzi’s grave. The children used to cross the fence and climb on it, as if it were just another part of the game.
I always imagined Krinitzi smiling to himself – a legendary mayor who never imagined his Saturdays would look like this, but perhaps was actually glad that people still came.

The restaurant that stood on the lake in the National Park in Ramat Gan is still there. A small island in the heart of the water, a round structure reminiscent of other days. Once there was an active restaurant there, full of life, music, and light. People came especially – to sit by the water, have a drink in the evening, celebrate events, see the sunset breaking on the surface of the lake. The transparent structure allowed one to see outside in all directions, as if sitting inside the lake itself.  

For years it has stood abandoned. Intact, but quiet. The glass walls are still there, the roof still holds, the floor still bears traces of what was. But there’s no movement, no plates, no background conversations. It’s like a time capsule frozen in the heart of the park.

But recently I was very happy to hear that they brought back the boats.
Twenty years later, one can sail again.
And they’re also starting to talk about restoring the restaurant, maybe renovating, maybe demolishing and rebuilding. Not sure when or if it will happen – but the very idea that this restaurant hasn’t said its last word yet, holds something exciting. Perhaps like the boats that returned after two decades – it too will come back.

So maybe it’s time. To return there at night, like then. Not to go backwards, but to pause for a moment, remember, and continue – with the same partner, in the same place, only this time after the silver wedding anniversary. And now there’s no need to bring a camera specially, I always have one on me like everyone else.