Neve Tzedek is a small neighborhood nestled between the Tel Aviv metropolis and the Mediterranean sea.

Neve Tzedek means oasis of justice.

A sense of history envelops me as I step out of the taxi onto Shabazi street. These narrow roads are peppered with an array of assorted trees; Fig, fichus, pomegranate, olive and citrus trees form archways above the cobbled stone roads.

Fruits pendulously hanging on fragile branches, absorbing the sun’s rays. One more day of sun and they will surely burst.

This is the first neighborhood that was established 22 years before Tel Aviv. In 1887, a group of families who wanted to escape the dilapidated and bustling ancient port of Jaffa, made it home. The streets are vibrant with boutique hotels, stylish coffee bars and designer stores.

Trendy, well-dressed tourists and Israelis seem at ease as they soak in the milieu that over a century ago was home to famous writers and artists like Shai Agnon and Nachum Gutman.

Buildings and house, with arched windows and worn rustic doors embellish the streets. Modern architects and designers have recreated masterpieces grand in their simplicity. The dappled hues and shades of color around me keep me moving towards the Suzanne Dellal Center for dance and theater. The Center was established in 1989 by the Dellal family from London. It is a home where Israeli artists create and bring to the stage their life experience. Each year over half a million visitors are welcomed at the Center which has premiered over 850 performances and hosts 600 cultural events per year.

Each balcony rains down differently colored and fragrant creepers. From Grassy Bindweed in brilliant blues to the dangling whites of Bishop's Weed and Syrian Bear's Breech.

Jerusalem stone and rugged marble create exteriors often bordered by hand-crafted mosaics in ancient stones. Many entrances are punctuated with pot containers which provide a welcoming and alluring abode to Grey Leaved Saucer Berries and Peasant's Eye in shades of red and purple.

I saunter past a ceramic workshop, where I peek in, and am aroused by the sculpted, sweating, bare body of the artist as he passionately fashions the clay on his wheel.

A young couple whizzes past me on a canary-yellow Vespa –hair billowing in the mild breeze.

The enticing aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and 'just out of the oven' pastry seduces my senses. I pull out a chair at the hip and happening Parisian style Nina Café, each wall adorned with mysterious sepia prints of places and people.

I sit back.

Watch.

Listen.

Smell.

Touch.

My hypnotic state is disrupted by a crying infant. His mother, with a thick brown plait, peeks into his pram and lovingly lifts him up, and puts him to nurse at her breast.

Oblivious to the scene next to them, a table with garrulous, elderly men indulge in conversation, coffee and croissants with lashings of cinnamon, almond shavings and honey.

I reach for my phone and push contacts. Who should I call to join me?