Those of you who live in New York or Los Angeles probably won't appreciate this . . . or maybe you'll appreciate it more . . . but anyway here it is . . .
Today I was in Cafe Hillel on Emek Refaim Street, eating lunch with my friend C., when who should walk in but . . .
Me: C, turn around. Is that . . . ?
C: Why, oh, yes, yes it is.
It was Natan Sharansky. In his signature cap and everything.
He sat down two tables away from us.
I love living in a small country.
The freelance reporter in me wanted to go over to him, introduce myself, and ask for an interview.
But the jaded New Yorker in me decided that approaching a famous person who is trying to enjoy his espresso is not cool.
Anyhow he stayed for about 10 minutes, talking softly over coffee with some other guy who, for all I know, is also a big name, but I didn't recognize him. He (the other guy) had that look though, of an Israeli who believes he is important, whether he actually is or not. (Which, pretty much, is every Israeli who has any money or has ever been mentioned in a newspaper for any reason.)