Israelis at Revolution

Avi flaked on our plans (no hard feelings) and I was all dressed with nowhere to go, so I decided to go out anyway to find a bar or cafe to drink wine and scribble in my notebook at. It was obvious where I should go when I saw the Revolution Cafe, with red walls and open patio doors and a live band playing a combination of jazz, latin, blues and folk.
I asked a stranger whether I could sit at the tiny open table attached to theirs. They answered in a vague accent that I could. When they started speaking Hebrew to each other, I almost lost it laughing. There are so few Israelis in San Francisco, what are the chances I just sat down at a table-full of them?
I asked the one next to me in Hebrew if they lived here or were on vacation. He said they all live around here. We watched the band play and talked about my hangups about speaking more than one language at a time (my parents got me to speak Hebrew as a kid by telling me not to speak any English) and about generally living around.
Somehow he convinced me to leave with his friends and hang out at his apartment, where I started to suspect I wasn't just making a 31-year-old buddy to speak Hebrew with, and now I might have a problem because I was in the apartment of a guy I wasn't attracted to. I was sitting on his chair and he motioned me to sit on his bed. I said "I'm okay." Ha. He asks, "Does 31 seem really old to you?" "A little," I answer, lying through my teeth since I had been throwing myself at a 32-year-old all week. I told him I had to go soon and soon after that he dropped me off at my place. My biggest worry was that I didn't have the vocabulary in Hebrew to make excuses or let him down easy if he made a pass at me.