Houses have memories too. They hide them under their windowsills, tuck them in layers of paint and sometimes whisper them to birds passing by. I wonder whose memories these houses will keep. I live here but I am unable to leave a trace. I try to attach myself to the walls, dirty them, mark them… but I fail. They are constantly cleaned, watched, and protected. I caress them instead. And I film them, lest I forget. Home is where the heart is, they say. I disagree. My heart is everywhere. It left with the music. Like a turtle, I am always home.
It is summer, it is hot. It is time for the holidays. A young Israeli couple set off on their trip to the Sinai. The sea is to their right and ahead of them is nothing but motorway and the prospect of a few lovely days. The most important thing is with them at all times: their camera. They document their journey without cessation, filming each other and themselves. It’s all about the composition of the picture. It’s also about the composition of their lives, their mutual lives. When they pick up a hitchhiker, their configuration goes into a tailspin. Out of nowhere, danger draws nearer.