We have three days left before the busiest partying weekend of the entire year. The Talmud itself urges us to drink so much during the holiday of Purim that we won’t quite remember the point of Purim itself.

Since the biblical story of Queen Esther ends with the gruesome massacre of 50,000 innocent Persians, I’m certainly looking forward to that stage of the night. I’d much rather think of Purim as a jovial spring festivity that had the Esther story pinned to it. Most secular Israelis take it to be that and use the occasion to break the day to day routine, dress up (adults and children alike), a boogie a bit.

Itka took a half a day off work for Purim shopping. She wants to dress up as Oscar Wilde. We head down to Jaffa, where a special sale of vintage clothes is to take place in honor of the holiday.

On the way, we get cought up in a peculiarly solid traffic jam. It turns out that the campaign for freeing kidnapped soldier Gilad Shalit initiated a five minute “pause” in which the entire country will stand still in his honor. I’m not very fond of the direction this campaign is taking, focusing on ceremony rather than outlining the sacrifices we have to make to save that kid and insisting that they are made. Other things bother me too, but let’s stop here. This is supposed to be a Purim post, and it’s off to a strange start.

The five minutes end with no solution in sight and we arrive on Yehuda Hayamit street. Once completely ramshackled, it is now gentrifying. Is it because more Jewish Tel-Avivians are moving into the neighborhood, or are the new pavements that which draws them? Whichever the egg and whichever the chicken, this part of town is changing.

But isn’t losing its memory altogether.

At the shop Itka quickly finds an incredible outfit for a London dandy.

She’s not the only gender bender in town. Since Purim this year coincides with St. Patrick’s day, I first thought of dressing up as young Rosie McCan from the banks of the Bann, a ballade heroine better known as the Star of the County Down, but none of the green dresses fit me quite as well as this one.

So I’m thinking of going out as a female supporter of the Argentinian national football team.

From Yehuda Hayamit we continue to the flea market for accesories. This part of town is also gentrifying quickly, too quickly. Boutiques and bars are already forcing the traditional stalls out of this unique part of town. Not only the Arabs of Jaffa are struggling against current developments. Working class Jewish communities are suffering from the current mayor’s policies.

Thankfully there are still a few fleas to be found at the flea market.

And Itka finds here a 20 sheqels gold watch for the Oscar Wilde she is to become.

We finish our joint part of the tour with the city’s most spectacular culinary offering. The Mesabha (hot, spicy hummous) of Ali Karwan (better known as Abu-Hassan). It’s served with only one side order: several chunks of unchopped, unpeeled onion, to be mixed into its magic. I can’t dream of a better lunch.

Itka heads off to work and I continue to the south Tel-Aviv borrough of Florentin to meet our friend Ruthie, who’s is to become Wonderland’s Alice.

We need to find a wig for her, a wig for me, a moustache for Itka and a toutou for our friend Anat, who wants to be the dancer from “black Swan”. Florentin, much of which is a wholesale garment district, boasts several businesses that cater only to Purim shoppers and make nearly all their annual revenue during this one week of the year.

Florentin, a quarter established by greek Jews who were fortunate enough to arrive here before the Holocaust (the catastrophe of Greek Jewry is nearly unmatched) has also become gentrified, but in a different way. It is home to the city’s happy go lucky urbanites, a sprited bunch that tends to get along fairly well with the old guard.

So Ruthie and I hit the stores looking for hair. She is unwilling to reinterpert Alice as an Israeli with short brown curls.

The shops offer much more than wigs. The box on the right holds “big dead man” costumes the one on the left: “small dead man”.

We buy Itka a moustache and a cane. We even find Anat a black toutou. Only the hair thing doesn’t work out.

Since this site usually deals with political questions, I’ll blame historical complexes for our difficulties at finding a blond wig. Alice is, alas, a “shikse”, the ultimate fantasy and threat. Placing golden locks over nice Jewish curls is akin to opening a posh boutique on a Jaffa street or building a yuppie condo complex in Florentin. We’re not made for glamour. We grew up on terrible crumbly Hamentashen.

But of course, nothing stops a truly determined assimilator. Finally, at a wig parlor on Allenby Street, Ruthie discovers her inner Joni Mitchell. This wig is too expensive to get as a Purim prop, so she has to get another one, but it was worth the walk downtown.

Well, after a day that started with a reminder of a terrible local tragedy, you can’t blame us for doing our best to look foreign. I myself got a great redhead wig to go with the dress and promise to update this post with a photo of all of us in our full costumes as soon as there is one. Enjoy the holiday whether you’re Jewish or not, and come visit our city. It’s just this colourful even when we aren’t looking for gold watches.