I'm standing in the lobby of my hotel in Tel Aviv, waiting for the elevator. I'm jet-lagged and tired, and I have become adept at ignoring Hebrew all around me.

"Slih-hah?", I hear again, from behind me. I have no idea how I really should spell this, but I'm remembering now that it means "excuse me?" in Hebrew, so I turn around. At eye level I see two big swaying piles of dishes. Underneath the dishes is a girl, a waitress, squeezing herself and the dishes way into my personal space. She's cute and young. Everyone here is cute and young.

As I turn she looks right into my eyes and sprays some Hebrew at me. I stare blankly, and then after a second I say, "Sorry, I only speak English?" Her eyes roll, and then they glance toward the dishes that fill both her hands.

"Could you get the door for me?". Her English is clear and perfect.

"Oh, of course! Sorry." I open the door that it turns out I was blocking, and she rushes through. Not looking back, she says,

"Sorry, you looked Israeli."

Um, thanks?