What else do you expect from the French?

Last night the French givernment and the Tel Aviv municipality presented what they billed as "the biggest fireworks show in the world" (link is in Hebrew, but the video should play anyway; the last 30 seconds are of the fireworks display). We'd heard about it through the ManBoy--his parents wanted him to go with them, and he said only if he could bring the Youngest Teen along, and we said we'd go, too, but not sit near them. (ManBoy's parents have rights to chaperone the young couple, too.)

Not sitting near them? No problem. Police estimated a quarter million people turned out to see the show. Biggest fireworks show in the world? It is to laugh. I've been to the Macy's 4th of July fireworks. I've been to Disney. Heck, I've been to Fort Hamilton when the army still put on fireworks displays. So not the world's largest that even the news media down-graded it to Israel's largest. Like that's saying something? Anyone thinking of small fish in smaller ponds?

Not that it was a total disappointment. It was too short (about 15-20 minutes) but they had some shells I've never seen before, and they did amazing things with movements, swirling the shells and doing a groosmen and the bride display with gold shells shooting out of the tower in double ranks. Very cool, but not enough to sooth the savage crowd, many of whom had been waiting in Charles Clore park for six or seven hours.

And then the traffic. Oh my stars, the traffic. We'd made the mistake of parking nearby, at thge Carmel shuk, because we thought we wouldn't want to walk back to the Central Bus Station. It took us 90 minutes just to get out of the freakin' parking lot, and only got out that quickly ebacsue someone managed to break some of the metal barriers and push aside a parked car so that a lucky few could escape out the bolt hole. It took us another hour to get out of the city.

(Image shamelessly stolen from Ynet)

I did learn one new thing, though, While we were sitting on the grass, waiting for dark and the show, I was plying my tahkli, spinning up some of last year's white cotton. A woman came up, I spun while she and The Spouse discussed me and my spinning, and she told us that once upon a time there had been a kibbutz named Pelach (spindle) which made its money selling locally-spun yarn. Israel's come a long way since then, and not in the right direction.

And before we go, a gratuitous cotton shot:


White's going like gang-busters, green is showing a little life. Brown? Nothing so far. Nada. [sigh]