Letter from Israel

'No Smoking' Hits Tel Aviv

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By Meredith Price

 

A stringent new non-smoking law went into effect on Nov. 7 in Israel.

A scruffy-looking guy with blonde dredlocks sitting on the floor next to us pulls a cigarette out with furtive grace and places it, unlit, between his lips.

"I'm going outside to have a smoke," he tells his friends. "I'll be back." Behind him, the universal sign for "no smoking," a cigarette inside a big red circle with a slash through the middle, is precariously affixed to the railing. The plastic lamination on its edges is frayed and discolored, but the sign's presence inside The Barbie, a wellknown concert venue in South Tel Aviv, is definitely new.

Unlike many U.S. states, almost every bar, restaurant, cafŽ, shopping mall and concert venue in Israel — especially clubs — allows smoking. The search for a nonsmoking restaurant has been, until now, a futile one. Benches inside Israeli shopping malls are almost always filled with people taking cigarette breaks, and bars are notoriously smoky here, especially in the winter when everyone crams into small spaces and the air hardly circulates. Even offices frequently allow employees to smoke at their desks in Israel. The trains seem to be the one sacred place where the laws against smoking in public areas are actually enforced.

Constantly encountering smoke-filled venues is such a problem that it is one of the things my husband and I were already dreading about returning to Israel after a recent trip to smoke-free San Francisco.

"Every time we go out now we're going to come home smelling like an ashtray," I complained on the flight to Tel Aviv. "The worst part is having long hair. I'll have to wash it twice a day to get rid of the smoke."

Thus, it was a great surprise to discover that a stringent new non-smoking law went into effect on Nov. 7 in Israel, just in time for our return. This law, unlike the March 2001 ban on smoking in public places that everyone summarily ignores, has a chance of succeeding. What makes this one any different? The answer is simple: money.

Inspectors are enforcing the new law by giving tickets to both individuals and establishments. Places that do not force patrons to put out their cigarettes will face fines of $1,250, and individuals who are caught smoking in illegal areas will now be slapped with $225 tickets.

Tel Aviv bar owners are up in arms about the new restrictions, claiming they are unenforceable and will ruin the ambiance and make people more nervous than they already are. Nevertheless, people are taking the new law seriously so far. The owner of The Barbie, for one, is not willing to take any chances. If even one ashtray is found on a table inside by an inspector, he'll get such an expensive ticket that the risk is not worth taking.

And the same is true for the gaggle of smokers that has gathered outside The Barbie to light up and debate the new law.

"Maybe this will help me quit smoking," says a tall, willowy girl wearing a pair of stylish black glasses as she takes a long drag from a slim cigarette. Her boyfriend disagrees. "It's fascist," he tells her. "If you want to quit smoking, you don't need the state to help you do it. You should do it by yourself." While that may be true, I point out that many New Yorkers who have taken to curbside smoking claim they smoke less now because of the bans. At least one Israeli agrees that it's a good thing. "I quit smoking a few months ago, and this just makes it easier," says the young blonde to my right who came to socialize, not smoke.

Another guy in the circle pipes up with a more humorous advantage: smirting.

"I read about it somewhere recently. It's a combination of smoking and flirting that developed in countries where there's a ban on smoking," he explains. "Israelis don't need much help to flirt, but it could be a good way for singles to meet."

Of course, there are a few possible downsides to the ban as well. According to a Danish friend, when the ban took effect in Denmark, people in bars and clubs suddenly started to realize how bad people actually smell without the smoke to cover up body odor. The Israelis in this circle seems to think that won't be a problem here because the weather is so much warmer than in Denmark. "People don't need to wear much in Tel Aviv, so they're not sweating under heavy coats and then going into a club," retorts the willowy girl's boyfriend. "But I still think it's a fascist law." No matter what each individual thinks, however, the fact remains that they are all outside smoking. Not a single person even tried to follow the usual code of conduct in Israel: Do it until someone tells you not to. After all, who wants to pay such a hefty fine?

As the debate about smoking continues to rage outside, inside The Barbie, Prem Joshua is taking the stage with his band of talented world-music musicians. I breathe deeply as I take my seat on a striped cushion and detect neither the odor of sweat nor smoke. Prem Joshua strokes the sitar as a Japanese musician to his left plays a set of what must be the tiniest cymbals on earth.

My eyes don't burn from the thick layer of smoke that usually fills these places, and I take an appreciative whiff of my clean hair. The only smoke in this air emerges, odorless, from fog machines behind the stage. As it drifts into the lights, tiny gray whirls form and I silently thank the Knesset members who had the good sense to pass a stricter, no-smoking law.

"This is even better than California," says my husband. "What a great country."

Meredith Price Levitt grew up in Marietta and bought a ticket to Tel Aviv on Sept. 10, 2001. She writes a column on Israeli innovations and cultural features for The Jerusalem Post. You can reach her at meredithmprice@yahoo.com.

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