“If shit pays a price, beggars are born without asses,” says a thin, unshaven intellectual named Godard with a casual air. Aphorisms, as always. This is the speaker’s favorite movie. And the speaker believes the maxim is true.
Two decades ago, a friend admonished him to think positively and stop being so beggarly. The friend insisted that riches would come, that a move from Kapotnya to Khamovniki was possible within years. Time moved on. He remains in Kapotnya. The beggars stay where they began, even if a moment of luck makes the world seem worth it. In the mind of the narrator, Tel Aviv is the city of aspiration, the most expensive place in the world, and a personal beacon of unyielding desire. It resides in a soul that tends toward non-positivity and lingering poverty, a paradox the narrator openly acknowledges.
Dreams of wealth do not automatically follow with the possession of a glamorous address. The speaker recalls his father’s paradoxical line: a rich beggar enjoys ice cream, a reminder that value and excess do not always align with straightforward wisdom.
In the center of the world’s most expensive capital, a man in shorts catches sight of the narrator and waves on the sidewalk. They have connected through a private network about the logistics of renting and subletting apartments. The reality of this market in Tel Aviv is described as a kind of sport with sharp edges. The narrator could not imagine leaving his own apartment for a week’s vacation in Moscow and renting it out, including his underwear, socks, and dishes, while he traveled. Yet this is precisely how the practice works here. A cycle repeats itself—visit a place for a month, a week, or a day. People appear more open and straightforward, greeting strangers on the street, sharing a good day, sometimes teasing with a playful tongue, and then continuing down the road with new companions. The narrator has lived among friends for months. Their children ask about relatives and siblings, only to be reminded that there are none. In this circle, every person is treated as a brother or a son.
There is a sense that everyone carries some form of student life with them. If one accepts the idea that every encounter is a potential kinship, it is possible to do almost anything. If the comfort of distance is rejected, one might feel lost.
In the midst of the crowd in the center of the world’s most expensive capital, a naked man recognizes the narrator and waves with a courteous greeting. Shalom is exchanged, a sign of coexistence in a difficult landscape.
The narrator is a Tajik doorman in Tel Aviv, whose rudimentary Hebrew does not help much on the streets. An old friend appears in the form of a naked man who leads him into the less visible parts of the city. The exclusive slums cost around two thousand dollars for a tiny 20‑foot unit. At the entrance, an uncle sits on the pavement smelling cocaine, a scene familiar from cinema and memory alike. The streets host the homeless, the insane, and the addicted, yet they are treated with particular kindness. A tramp spits toward the narrator, narrowly missing him. Israel is a country the narrator loves, but the feeling is not fully returned; the relationship feels uneven. The second spit comes within the month.
The naked guide leads the way to a rooftop.
– Ein po miklahat? asks the narrator. Where is the shower?
“Po,” responds the naked guide and waves a hand.
They enter. The space reveals a rusty toilet with peeling tiles, no sink, no shelf, no shower. – Eifo miklahat? the narrator repeats, realizing his Hebrew may be far from sufficient. “Sham,” insists the naked man.
The narrator surveys ahead, again and again, consulting the dictionary and the shower calendar in his mind. The truth emerges after several checks: there is only one push, a surprising detail noticed after the sixth glance. A bidet hose becomes the shower.
The apartment costs 1,700 dollars, still centered in Tel Aviv. People pay for the street itself when it comes to location value.
The city’s urban development raises questions about why this place is so expensive, so bohemian, and so crowded with both opportunity and hardship. Almost every view out the window includes construction sites. It is a city where people can afford cars and 2,000-dollar flats, yet struggle to put food on the table at times.
A poem by Father Leonid Martynov is quoted to reflect on the situation:
Unfenced from the city there is a gap there I see it Rich beggar eating ice cream For one kilogram kilogram.
What happened, and what did the USSR State Prize winner write about in 1949, remains a matter of speculation and memory for the narrator, who contemplates the past while living in the present.
Tel Aviv was named the most expensive city to live in in 2021 and 2022 according to a study by The Economist’s analytics department. Hong Kong, Paris, Zurich, and Singapore are bypassed, and the reasons become clear. Competition is limited, imports are nearly impossible, resources concentrate among a few families, and the country’s size contributes to the effect. Everyone wants a place here, and the price of an apartment starts at about a million dollars. Even a simple glass of wine can begin at ten dollars.
“I didn’t expect the market to get this overheated,” says a man named Alex who arrived from Russia. He explains that nearly forty families arrived within an hour after he posted a rental notice. He does not know where to go next. Alex is a sportsman, a stickler for detail, tidy, a programmer, and lucky to own his own apartment in Tel Aviv. His facial muscles twitch as he describes how a year could pass without a single scratch on his white unit. Let the other forty families try their luck, he suggests with a hint of bravado.
The narrator could not rent in Moscow either. Knowledgeable people explained that leaving magnets in a refrigerator could prevent a rental, a strange example of how small details can influence the market. In Israel, the ad context often shows a tumble dryer in the frame, and such things can discourage further inquiries. The market, the narrator notes, is overheated.
The common wisdom holds that wealth should not be saved, as saving is a beggar’s habit, a point echoed by a close friend who insists wealth is best built through risk and movement. A classmate, Sveta, confirms this idea with a pragmatic and comic realism. She knows prices, negotiates joyfully, and buys something delicious for a small sum, then reminds others to settle debts promptly. The story ends with a reminder that moving from one country to another can lower the standard of living. The narrator notes that rich beggars exist as an oxymoron, a paradox that refuses to be resolved easily.
The narrative closes with a personal statement: the author’s opinions are his own and may not reflect the editors’ stance. [Citation: Economist study 2021-2022; general market observations]