Air raids, Tel Aviv-style, are a peculiarly relaxed affair.
When the klaxon wailed out on a warm Thursday night, Nahalat Binyamin Street, the main destination for the coolest bars and restaurants, was heaving with immaculate women in minidresses and muscular young men in shorts and T-shirts.
But rather than sprint for cover from the Yemeni rocket attack, the revellers simply picked up their ice creams and wine glasses and, with a collective sigh, slouched into a side door of the swanky Arte gelateria. They called it a bomb shelter, but it seemed to me as if a well-aimed projectile would crush it like a matchbox.
