The following story took place many years ago on the outskirts of Ramat Gan, where Jordan Street that flows parallel to the river east of there, which name it bears. There, where it meets Aluf Sade Street, which stretches from the Ramat Efal neighborhood westward toward the cities of Givatayim and Tel Aviv. Where high-rise apartment buildings now stand, overlooking the red tile roofs of the Ramat Chen neighborhood to the south. On that, exact space once stood a single-story stone building. It was a white and bland building, a scion of the ascetic architecture that characterized the construction industry during the city’s early years. A building that lacked any grace or uniqueness, and which did not reveal its purpose in any way to passers-by. Those, in turn, would drive by it unknowingly, rushing through the city streets which back then seemed bigger and wider, and today are overflowing and congested, like the arteries of a heart patient moments before the blood ceases to move in them. Even though it was only a kilometer away from our house, we kids perceived the intersection as a distant place, one you meet only when traveling through it in a car. We happened to cross it mostly on weekends, crowded in our regular seating lineup on the back seat of the white Beetle, on our way to one destination or another. Like many others, we too did not pay attention to that building, and it blended into the urban boredom of two-and three-story residential buildings that stood along the streets of the developing city, and the entire area.

All that changed one warm spring day, towards the end of fifth grade. We sat, boys and girls classmates, on the wooden benches of a noisy truck that drove us from school to a swimming lesson in the municipal pool. The truck creaked and moaned along the ten-minute voyage as if it were a freighter sailing through stormy sea waves. As it reached the front of the stone building, it slowed down and stopped, taking in long seconds of grunted rest to the red traffic light at the intersection. The momentary silence granted us precious moments of lower tones conversation, but those too ceased once the new experienced was realized in our nostrils. Through the open truck’s windows poured a rich and stimulating aroma of fresh bread being baked. Our eyes searched from side to side, trying to locate the source of the smell. Within seconds, the puzzle was solved. The white, stateless, stone building contained a small bakery within it! And the smell, oh the smell. The kind where it does not matter when you last ate, how much, and if hungry you are at all. Bread you shall eat, now and immediately. Without butter, cheese, or any other spread. Fresh, warm bread, which smells invites you to bite into it without delay, urges you to tear off a large piece and fill your mouth with it. Press hard fingers into its warm softness, and perform on it lewd acts of hunger and passion, releasing damp steam from it, which strikes hard at your vibrating nostrils… ohhh… fresh bread…

The traffic light turned green and the ship sailed south. We, an innocent and sweaty bunch of eleven-year-olds, remained with our lust unfulfilled. Moments later we dunked into the pool water, which cooled our sweaty bodies and active desires. Years would pass before we will experience other types of lust with such intensity. Nevertheless, much like other things of this sort, you never forget your first time.