I was sitting on a bench on Frishman Street, just off Ben Yehuda Street. I had come to hear a teaching on the tenets of Jewish faith at the Tel Aviv International Synagogue. “Bible! Halacha! Jewish Philosophy!” had screamed the bold letters on the random flyer that I’d found earlier in the day, clipped to a notice board at the hostel.

But I’d come a bit ahead of time and had a few minutes to kill.

I was just energetically biting into an apple, when a dark tall stranger walked past me and said something in Hebrew.

“Say that again” I said automatically “I didn’t understand”

“You didn’t understand? What didn’t you understand?” he bellowed the Israeli style “I said bon apetite.”

But he had an open face and when he smiled, something happened between us. I felt my insides melt and become like Max Brenner hot chocolate…the world slowed down, everything becoming thick and sweet with anticipation…

Ah no my lovelies, I’m just joking.

Were I this quick to be charmed by men, I’d be in deep shit by now, believe me. For these Israeli men, they are notorious. Notorious! Not a day goes by without some attempt from someone to chat me up.

“How old are you?” they demand candidly “Do you have kids? Husband? Boyfriend? Would you like one?” I’ve met a man who claimed to be a playwright and who pleaded with me to become part of his project as the 70s’ “nature girl in the woods”. There’ve even been one or two marriage proposals.

And just to dispel any confusion: I’m no Angelina Jolie. Just your average girl next door (plus a brain). I recall Samira telling me about a man who approached her at a bus terminal. After she gave him a cold shoulder, he swiftly moved on to another female passenger in the queue. These men are just trying their luck, and they’re honest about it. It’s just the way it is.

I actually find this attitude not entirely unpleasant; it’s non-pretentious and somewhat refreshing. At least most of the time. I’ve been experimenting a bit with being less rigid in these situations than I was even a few years ago. Travel experience and aging combined, doing the deed. Still, there are lessons to be learned. Fast. But that’s a topic for another topic, as I’m digressing shamefully.

This experimentation and all, could be why I allowed the dark tall stranger sit next to me.

Enter Yossi. Yossi is funny, easy-going and self-assured in a sweet kind of way. Born and bred in Tel Aviv, he drives like a maniac. We were cruising on his scooter last night, breaking just about every law there was. When the road gets too jammed, Yossi has no qualms about driving onto a footpath. And I seem to have no qualms about being his partner in crime. So last night we were powering through the sea promenade, manouvering between Muslim families and gay men with their dogs, until we nearly ran over two police officers! Op-pah.

Not to worry but. I mean, Yossi didn’t bat an eyelid: “It’s all good” he reassured me as he duly produced his driver’s licence out of his pocket. The three men engaged in a properly heated exchange of words and gestures.

“I really wanted to get off the footpath, but I couldn’t” he pointed towards the wired fence separating our path from the road “who put this stupid fence here!”

He got away with it, of course. We parted with the policemen, with friendly “Layla tovs” and convivial pats of one another’s backs. “I know how to talk to them” said Yossi “been down that road many times.”

And the Jewish teaching I had been going to the night I met Yossi? When I finally entered the synagogue, I was met by three men, advanced in age and very friendly. They advised me politely that the shiyur was for men only. That was pretty obvious actually; the vibe was that they couldn’t wait for me to get out of there fast enough. I even got a personal escort out.

The slick road of my conversion to Judaism might have just been averted. But not to worry. I acquired a new friend instead.

I forgot to mention something about Yossi: he works as a driving instructor.