Daniel sent us this one — he wants to talk about Ashdod and Ashkelon, the two big southern coastal cities. These are places most tourists never see, they're in rocket range from Gaza, and they're significantly cheaper than Tel Aviv. He's asking who actually lives there, what the local economies run on, whether the cost-of-living difference is real, and what it's like day to day with fifteen seconds to get to a shelter. This isn't the glossy Israel of the travel brochures, and I think that's exactly why he's asking.
These two cities are fascinating because they're essentially the industrial backbone of the country's south, and almost nobody outside Israel has heard of them. Ashdod has about two hundred twenty-eight thousand people, Ashkelon around a hundred fifty-eight thousand. Combined, that's roughly the population of Cleveland, sitting on the Mediterranean coast, forty and fifty-five kilometers from Gaza respectively.
Tel Aviv is what, seventy kilometers from Gaza? So the difference in distance sounds modest on a map, but those extra kilometers completely change the shelter calculus.
In Ashdod, you have about thirty seconds from the moment the siren sounds until impact. In Ashkelon, it's closer to fifteen. Tel Aviv gets a full sixty to ninety seconds. That's the difference between walking to your safe room and genuinely sprinting — or, in some older Ashkelon buildings without reinforced rooms, just hoping the stairwell is close enough.
That's about how long it takes me to decide whether to get up from a chair.
You're a sloth. So for humans, it's barely enough time to grab a child and run. The Home Front Command has had to adapt building codes specifically for what they call the Gaza Envelope and adjacent cities. Reinforced concrete safe rooms, mandatory in all new construction since the early nineties, but Ashkelon has a lot of pre-nineties housing stock.
The older the building, the worse your odds. Is that part of why prices are lower, or is it just distance from the center?
It's both, but let's start with who actually lives there. Ashdod has one of the largest Moroccan-Jewish populations in the country — about a third of the city traces back to Moroccan immigration in the fifties and sixties. There's also a huge Georgian-Jewish community, one of the largest outside Georgia itself, and a significant Russian-speaking population from the nineties wave. Ashkelon is similar but with more of a mix — Moroccans, Russians, Ethiopians, and a growing community of French Jews who arrived in the two thousands and again around twenty fifteen.
These are immigrant absorption cities. Not the Tel Aviv startup crowd.
And that shapes everything — the food, the pace of life, the political leanings. Ashdod and Ashkelon are among the most reliably conservative cities in Israel. Likud strongholds, traditional, family-oriented. You see it in the streets — fewer cafes with laptops, more families on the promenade at ten at night in summer. The Moroccan-style grilled meats in Ashdod are legendary, by the way. There's a place near the port that does meorav yerushalmi better than anywhere in Jerusalem.
I'll take your word on grilled organ meat. What about the economies? Daniel asked about local employers.
The Port of Ashdod is the single biggest economic engine south of Tel Aviv. It handles about forty percent of Israel's container traffic — it's the country's main cargo gateway. About two thousand people work there directly, and the logistics ecosystem around it employs thousands more. There's also a massive refinery, oil storage facilities, and a power station. It's heavy industry. Ashkelon has the Rutenberg Power Station — coal-fired, one of the two largest in the country — and the Ashkelon desalination plant, which when it opened in two thousand five was the largest reverse-osmosis desalination facility in the world.
Sorek happened, Hadera happened. Israel kept building bigger ones. But Ashkelon's plant still produces about a hundred and twenty million cubic meters of water annually, which is roughly fifteen percent of the country's domestic water supply. Between the power plant, the desalination facility, and agriculture in the surrounding region, Ashkelon's economy is basically energy, water, and food.
The unglamorous trinity. Nobody's making a Netflix series about municipal water infrastructure, but that's what keeps a country running.
It creates stable, decent-paying jobs. Not tech salaries, but a technician at the desalination plant or a crane operator at Ashdod port can support a family. The tradeoff is that these are not cities you move to for career ambition. If you want to climb the ladder at a startup or work in high finance, you're commuting to Tel Aviv — which, from Ashdod, is about forty-five minutes by train. From Ashkelon, it's closer to an hour.
The commute is doable. Which brings us to the money question — is the cost of living actually significantly cheaper?
This is where it gets interesting. Rent in Ashdod runs about thirty to forty percent lower than equivalent apartments in Tel Aviv. A four-room apartment — what Israelis call a four-room, which is roughly a three-bedroom — might cost five to six thousand shekels a month in Ashdod, versus nine to twelve thousand in Tel Aviv. Ashkelon is even cheaper — you can find a four-room apartment for four to five thousand shekels.
Roughly half of Tel Aviv rents. That's substantial.
Purchase prices track similarly. The average price per square meter in Ashkelon is around eighteen thousand shekels, compared to about sixty-five thousand in Tel Aviv. You can buy an apartment in Ashkelon for eight hundred thousand to a million shekels. The same money in Tel Aviv gets you a parking spot and a sense of regret.
I've seen those parking spot listings. There's something deeply wrong when a concrete rectangle costs more than a house in the periphery.
Here's the catch — and this is where the cost-of-living conversation gets complicated. Groceries, utilities, fuel, clothing — those costs are essentially identical across Israel. The supermarket duopoly doesn't care where you live. Your electricity bill from the Israel Electric Corporation is the same per kilowatt hour in Ashkelon as in Tel Aviv. So the savings are almost entirely in housing. If you're renting, that's meaningful. If you own, the mortgage differential is enormous. But day-to-day consumption?
You're saving on the roof over your head, but the food under that roof costs the same. What about property taxes, arnona?
Lower, but not dramatically. The arnona rates are set by each municipality, and Ashdod and Ashkelon are classified in lower tiers than Tel Aviv. But we're talking maybe fifteen to twenty percent less, not half. Same for municipal services — cheaper, but not transformative.
The real wealth effect is housing. You buy a place for a third of the Tel Aviv price, your mortgage is a third, and that frees up disposable income. But if you're a renter, the savings are real but not life-changing.
And that calculus changes when you factor in the security situation. Let's talk about what it actually feels like to live under the rocket threat. The Iron Dome intercepts most projectiles, but it doesn't intercept everything, and the sirens themselves are a form of psychological attrition. During the twenty twenty-three war, Ashkelon took hundreds of rockets. Some got through. There were direct hits on residential buildings, there were casualties. In May twenty twenty-three, a rocket killed a man in his fifties in an Ashkelon apartment building. In October twenty twenty-three, a direct hit on a residential building in Ashkelon killed two.
These are not abstract numbers for people who live there. Every siren is a moment where you don't know if this is the one.
The reduced shelter time is the thing. In Tel Aviv, you hear the siren and you have a minute, maybe ninety seconds. You can finish your coffee, walk calmly to the safe room, check your phone. In Ashkelon, you have fifteen seconds. If you're in the shower, you're running wet. If you have a toddler in another room, you're making split-second decisions. Families with young children in Ashkelon and Ashdod talk about this constantly — the logistics of who grabs which child, which room everyone sleeps in to minimize distance to shelter.
That's a form of urban planning by threat. Your floor plan is dictated by trajectory maps.
It shapes who chooses to live there. The people who stay in Ashkelon and Ashdod tend to be deeply rooted — family nearby, community ties, a sense that this is home and they're not going to let rockets push them out. There's also a pragmatic calculation: if you work at the port or the power plant, you can't do that remotely from Tel Aviv. Your job is physically there.
The port doesn't zoom. So you've got an industrial workforce, strong immigrant communities, conservative politics, and a housing discount that comes with a psychological surcharge. What about the cities themselves? Daniel mentioned they're not the most beautiful.
Let's be honest — Ashdod and Ashkelon are not winning architectural awards. Ashdod was planned in the fifties as a modernist city, lots of concrete, functional blocks, wide boulevards. The planners were influenced by the British New Town movement, and the result is... There's a marina in Ashdod that's actually quite nice, and the beach stretches for kilometers. The sand is excellent. But the built environment is workmanlike.
The musical equivalent of beige wallpaper.
That's not entirely fair. Ashkelon has genuine archaeological depth — it's one of the oldest cities in the world. The Canaanites were there four thousand years ago. The Philistines made it one of their five city-states. There's a national park with Roman ruins, a Crusader fortress, and a beautiful beach inside the park. The modern city was built adjacent to that history, not on top of it, which means you can actually visit the ancient port.
Ashkelon has a five-thousand-year-old beachfront and nobody goes there.
Domestic tourism exists, but it's mostly Israelis from the center looking for a quieter beach day. International tourists rarely venture south of Tel Aviv unless they're going to the Dead Sea. And honestly, the security reputation doesn't help. When international media reports on Ashkelon, it's usually in the context of rocket attacks. The city's brand is "under fire," which is true but incomplete.
The branding problem is the rocket problem. If you're a young couple deciding where to buy, and you have the choice between a slightly more expensive apartment in Rishon LeZion, which is still central, still coastal, and not in rocket range, versus Ashdod where you save thirty percent but your kids grow up knowing what a siren sounds like — that's a real decision.
Rishon LeZion has been absorbing a lot of that demand. It's the fourth-largest city in Israel now, about two hundred sixty thousand people, and it's basically become the southern edge of the Gush Dan metropolitan area. Ashdod is just past that psychological boundary. It's close enough to commute but far enough to feel separate.
Ashdod is in the uncanny valley of Israeli geography — not central enough to be central, not southern enough to be the Negev, just sort of... there, with a port and rockets.
Yet two hundred twenty-eight thousand people live there. They're not all wrong. There's a real community fabric. The Moroccan-Jewish traditions around Mimouna, the post-Passover celebration, are enormous in Ashdod. Tens of thousands of people in the streets, open houses, traditional music, endless sweets. You don't get that in Tel Aviv. You get curated events. In Ashdod, it's organic, it's intergenerational, it's the real thing.
The tradeoff is authenticity plus affordability minus security and aesthetics. That's the equation.
Let's talk about what's changing. Since twenty twenty, both cities have seen new residential construction aimed at young families. The government's "Price Target" housing program — mechir matara — has been active in both cities, offering discounted apartments through lotteries. A young couple can win the right to buy a new apartment at twenty to thirty percent below market. In Ashkelon, that can mean a brand-new four-room apartment for under a million shekels.
How many people are entering these lotteries?
Tens of thousands. The demand far exceeds supply. For every apartment in a mechir matara project in Ashkelon, there might be twenty or thirty eligible applicants. The government has been expanding the program, but the fundamental dynamic is that these cities are attractive to people priced out of the center — provided they can tolerate the security situation.
Which brings us to Iron Dome and whether technology changes the equation. If interception rates are over ninety percent, does the risk calculus shift?
It does, but not as much as you'd think. Iron Dome is extraordinary — the interception rate against projectiles headed for populated areas has been reported above ninety percent in multiple rounds of conflict. But the system is designed to ignore rockets that are projected to land in open areas. So if you're in Ashkelon and a rocket is fired, you hear the siren regardless of whether Iron Dome calculates an intercept. The siren triggers on launch detection and trajectory, not on interception probability.
You get the full adrenaline spike even if the math says you're probably fine. The siren doesn't come with a probability readout.
"Attention, attention — incoming rocket, seventy-eight percent chance of interception, please proceed to shelter with moderate urgency." That's not how it works.
The Home Front Command's unreleased beta feature.
The psychological literature on this is pretty clear — intermittent unpredictable threats create more anxiety than constant predictable ones. Rockets from Gaza are the definition of intermittent and unpredictable. There were years, like twenty twelve to twenty fourteen, with intense rounds. Then relative quiet, then the twenty twenty-three war, which was the most intense barrage these cities have ever experienced. The unpredictability means you can't habituate to it.
Which is why people who leave tend to cite the cumulative psychological toll, not a single event. It's not "a rocket hit my neighbor's house." It's "I can't do this to my kids anymore.
There's a generational aspect. Children who grew up during the Second Intifada and the Gaza wars are now adults making housing decisions. Some of them want nothing to do with the south. Others feel the opposite — this is home, they're not being pushed out, and there's a defiant pride in staying. You see this in Sderot even more strongly, but it exists in Ashkelon and Ashdod too.
Sderot being the canonical example — a city that's basically a kilometer from Gaza and has been hit for twenty years. But Ashkelon is bigger, more economically significant. The stakes are higher.
Ashdod is even bigger. If Ashdod were to take sustained barrages, the economic disruption would be enormous. The port is a strategic asset. During the twenty twenty-three war, the port continued operating, but with restrictions. Ships were diverted to Haifa in some cases. The refinery had to implement emergency protocols. These are not hypotheticals — they're contingency plans that have been activated multiple times.
The cost-of-living discount is, in some sense, a risk premium. The market is pricing in the probability of disruption. Which is rational, but cold.
Markets are cold. But here's what's interesting — the risk premium has compressed over time. In the early two thousands, during the height of the Second Intifada, the price gap between Ashkelon and the center was even wider. As Iron Dome came online and interception rates improved, the gap narrowed. People are pricing in the new normal, and the new normal includes reasonably effective defense.
Reasonably effective is doing a lot of work there. Let's talk about the communities within these cities. You mentioned the Moroccan and Georgian populations in Ashdod. Are there specific neighborhoods that reflect these demographics?
Ashdod is interesting because it's not as segregated as some other Israeli cities. The Russian-speaking population is spread throughout. The Georgian community is concentrated in certain areas — the Tet Vav and Zayin neighborhoods have strong Georgian presence. The Ethiopian community is more concentrated in certain neighborhoods, and there have been integration challenges, as there have been nationally. Ashkelon has a large Ethiopian-Israeli community, about fifteen percent of the city's population, which is significantly above the national average.
Integration has been a mixed story nationally. How have Ashdod and Ashkelon handled it?
There have been tensions — protests, accusations of discrimination in housing and education. But there have also been success stories. The absorption of the Ethiopian community in Ashkelon has been a focus of municipal policy for years. The city runs programs, community centers, youth initiatives. It's not perfect, but it's also not the disaster narrative that sometimes dominates headlines. The reality is a lot of people living their lives, kids in school together, a slow process of normalization.
Slow normalization is probably the most Israeli phrase I can think of. Everything is a crisis until it isn't, and then it's just Tuesday.
The food gets better because of all this mixing. Ashdod's restaurant scene is underrated. You can get Georgian khachapuri, Moroccan couscous, Russian pelmeni, and Ethiopian injera all within a few blocks. It's not fine dining — it's home cooking, family-run places. The kind where the grandmother is in the kitchen and the menu is whatever she felt like making.
That's the upside of immigrant cities. The downside is that immigrant cities tend to be lower on the socioeconomic ladder, which means municipal budgets are tighter, schools have fewer resources, infrastructure ages faster. Is that the pattern here?
Yes, with nuance. Ashdod and Ashkelon are in the middle of Israel's socioeconomic rankings — not the bottom, not the top. The Central Bureau of Statistics clusters municipalities into ten socioeconomic tiers. Tel Aviv is a ten. Bnei Brak is a two. Ashdod is around a five or six. Ashkelon is a four or five. So they're below average but not at the bottom. The industrial base provides a floor. You don't have the extreme poverty of some development towns, but you also don't have the wealth concentration of the center.
Bagrut matriculation rates — the high school graduation and university eligibility metric — in Ashdod run around sixty-five to seventy percent, which is close to the national average. Ashkelon is slightly lower, around sixty to sixty-five percent. But these are averages that mask huge variation between neighborhoods. A school in a newer, more affluent Ashkelon neighborhood will have rates above eighty percent. A school in a older, lower-income area might be in the forties.
The zip code determines the outcome, same as everywhere. What about healthcare? You're the former pediatrician — what's the medical infrastructure like in these cities?
Ashdod has Assuta Medical Center, which opened in twenty seventeen — it's a modern, well-equipped public hospital serving the entire southern coastal plain. Before Assuta opened, residents of Ashdod had to go to Kaplan in Rehovot or Barzilai in Ashkelon. Barzilai is older — it was founded in nineteen sixty-one — but it's been renovated and expanded multiple times. During the twenty twenty-three war, Barzilai operated under rocket fire, moving patients to underground facilities. The staff there have experience that no hospital should have to acquire.
A hospital that has a rocket-response protocol is a hospital in a particular kind of place.
Barzilai's underground facility was built specifically to withstand rocket and missile attacks. It's fully equipped — operating rooms, ICU, maternity ward. During the twenty twenty-three war, the entire hospital essentially moved underground. They delivered babies in a fortified basement while Iron Dome intercepted overhead. That's not a drill. That's Tuesday.
Yet people still choose to live there and work there and raise families there. Which brings us back to Daniel's core question — what's the lived experience? Is it defined by the rockets or by everything else?
I think the answer is that it oscillates. During quiet periods — and there have been multi-year stretches of relative quiet — Ashkelon and Ashdod are just normal Israeli cities. People go to the beach, complain about traffic, argue about municipal politics, grill meat on Friday afternoons. The beaches in Ashkelon are beautiful, wide and sandy, less crowded than Tel Aviv. The marina area in Ashdod has cafes and restaurants with sea views. There's a quality of life that's hard to find at the same price point closer to the center.
Then a round of escalation happens, and for a few weeks, it's sirens and shelters and the kids sleeping in the safe room. Then it stops, and everyone goes back to the beach. That's the pattern.
That's the pattern. And it's worth noting that the pattern has been with us for over twenty years now. The first rockets from Gaza hit Ashkelon in two thousand six. That's two decades. An entire generation has grown up with this as background noise. They don't know an Israel without rockets from the south.
Which normalizes something that shouldn't be normal. A fifteen-second sprint to a reinforced room becomes just... part of the apartment layout. Like asking whether the kitchen has enough counter space.
Real estate listings in Ashkelon will mention "mamad" — the reinforced safe room — as a selling point. In Tel Aviv, a mamad is a nice-to-have storage room. In Ashkelon, it's existential. And newer apartments have them by law, but older buildings have shared stairwell shelters or external bunkers. If you're in a fourth-floor walkup built in the seventies, your shelter might be a concrete box in the courtyard. Fifteen seconds to get down four flights of stairs. Do the math.
You don't make it. So you stay in the stairwell and hope.
The Home Front Command's guidance for people who can't reach a shelter in time is to lie flat on the ground and cover your head. That's the official instruction. Lie on the ground and cover your head. For a rocket.
The banality of it. "Lie on the ground and cover your head" is what you tell someone when there's nothing better to tell them.
Which is why the building codes changed. Any new construction in Ashkelon and Ashdod requires a mamad in every apartment. The older housing stock is the problem, and it's being replaced slowly. Urban renewal projects — pinui binui, where old buildings are demolished and replaced with new towers — are active in both cities, but they take years. In the meantime, people live with the gap between the threat and their protection.
If you're advising someone considering a move, the checklist is: new building with a mamad, check the commute, understand that you're saving on housing but not on groceries, and be honest about your tolerance for sirens.
Spend a weekend. Walk around the neighborhoods, go to the beach, eat at a few restaurants. The cities have a reputation that's partly earned and partly outdated. Ashdod in particular has changed a lot in the last decade. The marina area feels almost like a different city from the older industrial neighborhoods. The train connection to Tel Aviv is reliable and fast. There's a tech park near the northern entrance to Ashdod that's attracted some companies.
What kind of tech?
Nothing glamorous — enterprise software, logistics tech related to the port, some cybersecurity firms that got tax incentives to open offices outside the center. The government has been trying to decentralize the tech sector for years, with mixed results. Ashdod has had some wins, Ashkelon less so. The gravitational pull of Tel Aviv is hard to overcome.
The entire country is a gravity well centered on Rothschild Boulevard.
The light rail in Tel Aviv, the metro when it eventually opens, the density of jobs and talent — it's a powerful centripetal force. Ashdod and Ashkelon are counterweights, but they're lighter ones. Their advantage is space and cost. For a family that wants a four-room apartment and can't afford a million and a half shekels, the south is the answer. The question is whether the sirens are a dealbreaker.
For a lot of families, the answer is no. Two hundred twenty-eight thousand people in Ashdod, a hundred fifty-eight thousand in Ashkelon. These are not ghost towns. They're growing.
Ashdod has been growing at about one and a half percent annually. Ashkelon slightly slower. Both are projected to continue growing, especially as the center becomes increasingly unaffordable. The population of Israel is projected to hit fifteen million by twenty sixty-five. Those people have to live somewhere. The coastal plain south of Tel Aviv is some of the last developable land near the center.
The long-term trajectory is growth, assuming the security situation doesn't deteriorate catastrophically. Which is an assumption people make, until they can't.
That's the bet. Everyone living in Ashkelon is making that bet. Everyone buying an apartment in Ashdod is making that bet. It's a bet on Iron Dome, on deterrence, on the idea that the rounds of escalation will remain intermittent rather than constant. And so far, across two decades, that bet has mostly paid off.
Mostly being the operative word. There's a cemetery in Ashkelon with graves from rocket attacks.
And that's not something you can price into a rent-versus-buy calculator. It's a different kind of calculus. One that people in most countries never have to make — whether the place you want to live might periodically become a target.
Let's shift slightly and talk about the future. The offshore gas fields — Leviathan, Tamar — are processed in Ashdod. The refinery is there. As Israel becomes more of an energy exporter, does Ashdod's strategic importance increase?
The Ashdod refinery processes about two hundred thousand barrels per day. The offshore gas comes ashore near Ashdod and Ashkelon. These cities are the entry point for Israel's energy supply. In any future conflict scenario, protecting that infrastructure becomes a national priority. The navy has a base in Ashdod. The port is designated a critical national asset. So there's a paradox — the very thing that makes Ashdod a target also ensures it will be heavily defended.
The refinery makes you a target, but it also makes you too important to lose.
That tension plays out in municipal politics too. Both cities have mayors who are aggressive about demanding government investment in protection and infrastructure. They argue, with justification, that the national government underinvests in the south relative to the center, and that the security burden their residents bear entitles them to more resources. Sometimes they win those arguments. Often they don't.
The periphery's eternal complaint. And yet the periphery keeps functioning.
Keeps functioning, keeps growing, keeps absorbing immigrants. Ashdod absorbed about twenty thousand people in the nineties from the former Soviet Union alone. That's a ten percent population increase in a decade. The city had to build schools, clinics, community centers, all while under the periodic threat of rockets from Gaza after two thousand five.
That's impressive. Absorption is hard enough without the rockets.
The rockets started coming right as the last big absorption wave was settling in. The disengagement from Gaza was in two thousand five. The first rockets hit Ashkelon in two thousand six. So there was no grace period. The new immigrants from the former Soviet Union and Ethiopia who had settled in Ashkelon went straight from figuring out Hebrew to figuring out where the nearest shelter was.
A uniquely Israeli onboarding experience. Welcome to the country, here's your ulpan textbook, and here's the siren protocol.
Don't forget the gas mask distribution center.
The welcome kit.
Here's the thing — and I think this is what Daniel was getting at with the question — these cities are not defined by the conflict, even though the conflict shapes them. They're defined by the people who built them, the communities that formed there, the industries that employ them, the beaches that make summer bearable. Ashdod and Ashkelon are working cities. They're not glamorous. They're not Tel Aviv. But they're real in a way that a lot of places aren't.
The unvarnished Israel. Where the hummus comes from, literally — a lot of the chickpea processing happens in the south.
Actually, Israel grows a lot of chickpeas in the south, near Ofakim and the western Negev. So yes, the hummus supply chain runs through the region. Ashdod port imports the tahini from Ethiopia and the chickpeas from... well, from the fields twenty kilometers away, and the whole thing comes together in a restaurant where the owner's grandmother is still telling him he's doing it wrong.
That restaurant is probably in a strip mall next to a hardware store, and it's the best meal you'll eat all year.
That's the south. That's Ashdod and Ashkelon. You don't go there for the architecture or the nightlife. You go there because it's home, or because you're visiting someone for whom it's home, and they feed you until you can't move.
To synthesize for the prompt — who lives there? Immigrant communities, industrial workers, families priced out of the center, and people who've been there for generations and aren't leaving. The port, the refinery, the power station, the desalination plant, agriculture, and the service economy that supports all of the above. Cost of living? Real savings on housing, minimal savings on everything else. Fifteen to thirty seconds to shelter, intermittent but intense rounds of rocket fire, a population that has learned to live with a threat that no one should have to live with.
That's the summary. The only thing I'd add is that the psychological cost is the hardest to quantify and the most important to understand. You can compare rental prices on Yad2. You can't compare what it feels like to hear a siren at three in the morning and grab your child and run. That's the variable that doesn't fit in a spreadsheet.
Yet people make the calculation every day. They buy the apartment, they take the job at the port, they raise their kids, they go to the beach. Even with fifteen seconds.
Even with fifteen seconds.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: The board game "Komikan" was played by the Selk'nam people of Patagonia as early as 500 CE. It used a set of carved bone dice and a leather playing surface divided into four quadrants representing seasons, and the game's name translates roughly to "the thief's path" — referring to a mythic fox spirit who stole fire from the gods. Players raced tokens across the board while trying to predict opponents' dice patterns, making it one of the earliest known bluffing games in the archaeological record.
A Patagonian bluffing game involving a fire-stealing fox.
The thief's path. Sounds like my morning commute.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop for keeping this ship afloat. You can find every episode at myweirdprompts.com or wherever you get your podcasts. If you've got a question you want us to dig into, send it our way. We'll be here.
Until next time.
