Tel Aviv refuses to sleep, even as tourist arrivals plunge close to 78%

Then the elevator doors closed. Floor 17.

The room waiting upstairs told a very different story. What first appeared to be a simple suite slowly unfolded into something far more indulgent. Two balconies opened directly onto the Mediterranean. There were two televisions, two bathrooms, a bath and separate shower, a couch positioned toward the windows, wine chilling nearby, and a carefully arranged spread of chocolates, macarons, fruit, and sparkling water laid out across the table.

They certainly knew how to make a girl feel welcome.

It was the kind of suite that made you briefly consider abandoning your plans altogether. Between the spa downstairs, the indoor pool facing the coastline, the compact but surprisingly well-equipped gym, and the quiet lobby bar overlooking the beach, the hotel almost convinced you that there was no reason to leave at all.

Almost. Because outside, Tel Aviv kept calling.

You woke up to the sound of waves folding into the shoreline below and seagulls circling above the marina.

Sitting at breakfast beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city felt impossible to ignore. The spread itself was exactly how a beachfront hotel breakfast in Tel Aviv should be: fresh fruit, yogurt, granola, pastries, salads, multiple egg options, and an omelet station working steadily in the background while sunlight poured over the Mediterranean outside.

Nothing overly extravagant – just done well, with the kind of view that somehow made the coffee taste even better.

And beyond the hotel walls, the city was already moving.

That atmosphere felt almost defiant, given the reality Israel’s tourism industry has faced over the past several years.

Yet walking through Tel Aviv, the statistics initially felt strangely disconnected from the rhythm of the city itself.

Along the beachfront promenade, the city still appears to pulse with visitors. The paths remain crowded well into the evening as runners weave between beach-goers, restaurants fill for dinner service, and bars near Allenby and Florentin spill onto sidewalks late into the night. From the marina to Gordon Beach, Tel Aviv still performs the energy of a city in full motion.

But the deeper one moves into the city, the atmosphere begins to shift.

Away from the beachfront, entire streets disappear behind scaffolding and construction barriers. Construction crews drill endlessly along major roads while sidewalks narrow beneath temporary wooden walkways and half-finished apartment towers. Some buildings still stand partially hollowed out by nearby missile strikes, with broken windows and exposed concrete sitting above otherwise ordinary cafés and convenience stores.

And while parts of the city remain crowded, much of that movement now feels distinctly local. The bars packed deep into Florentin or along Allenby are often filled less with international tourists than with Tel Aviv residents continuing their lives amid the uncertainty around them.

Tel Aviv feels like a city existing in two realities at once.

Belgrade’s business model relies on renovating aging apartments and transforming them into short-term rentals for tourists. Before the war, he said his booking calendar was almost full through the winter months. Now, much of his work revolves around temporary sublets and trying to avoid committing to long-term tenants in the hope that tourism will eventually return.

“In the end, sublets are only to keep my head above water,” he said.

According to Belgrade, recovery has repeatedly appeared within reach only to collapse under renewed regional escalation.

“Every time that it showed like, wow, this month will be successful, each time there was a beginning of a new chapter in the war,” he said.

The changes, he said, are visible far beyond the booking platforms. “Everybody says there’s no English in the streets,” he said. “There are no tourists.”

He described parts of the city that were once overcrowded on weekends as noticeably quieter now.

“The bars in Tel Aviv are closing one by one,” he said. “It’s empty, it’s quiet. The city is quiet.”

The concerns of the few travelers themselves have also changed dramatically. Belgrade said many guests now begin conversations not by asking about beaches or nightlife, but about security infrastructure.

“The first question they ask is, do you have a mamad or shelter in the building?” he said. For older Tel Aviv apartments, the answer is often no.

Yet not everyone in the tourism industry describes the situation in entirely the same way.

A manager at the Crowne Plaza said the hotel continues to receive both Israeli and international guests, although the nature of tourism has shifted.

“I don’t see a difference. I’ve been here for 15 years… You still get Israelis and tourists,” she said. “There are more business people who come.”

Still, from a guest’s perspective, the hotel often felt noticeably quieter than expected. The lobby was rarely filled. Elevators remained empty. Even the dining hall, despite the sprawling breakfast spread and panoramic sea views, never quite carried the bustle one might expect from a beachfront Tel Aviv hotel in summer.

Perhaps guests were out exploring the city, hidden away in their rooms, or simply traveling differently now. But the quietness lingered.

However, uncertainty remains part of daily operations. The manager recalled a guest recently discussing flight cancellations while preparing to leave the country. Air Canada suspended all flights to Israel until September 8, 2026, citing the “ongoing military situation in the Middle East.”

The city still moves with the same restless energy that built its reputation long before the wars. Beaches remain crowded on warm evenings. Restaurants still require reservations. Music still spills onto sidewalks long after midnight. But behind that movement lies a growing awareness of how fragile normalcy has become.

And yet, from the balcony of a hotel overlooking the Mediterranean, Tel Aviv did not feel like a city shutting down.

It felt like a city waiting.

Waiting for flights to stabilize. Waiting for visitors to return. Waiting for the uncertainty to loosen its grip long enough for tourism to resemble what it once was.■