Eddie gives me his business card. “Call me,” he says.

This was unexpected. Somehow guys seem to sense that I’m like an urban Dalai Lama. They don’t come on to me often (unless drunk) even on FB. But the latter might have to do with having a profile picture that says, “Kindness is the cure” or “We love refugees.”

On the other hand, I have a friend who never posts pictures of herself, only of beautiful scenery. Still, guys on FB tell her that she is stunning and that they have fallen in love with her. Many even offer to fly across the world just to meet her.

Being a regular at Movieing, my favorite café, I chat with everyone. No business cards involved. Occasionally someone says, “Write down my phone number.” Or, “Come over to my apartment.”

“But why?” I ask. “We always see each other here anyway.” I guess no guy wants to explain why, and that’s the end of it.

The same goes for Eddie who is also a regular. Instead of “Call me,” he might as well say, “Let’s mate” or “Let’s reproduce,” which also includes mating (or the sperm bank). Maybe he’d rather say, “Let’s see if we are romantically compatible.” But that’s less likely. Either way, I’m a nun. Who wants to have to discuss that with a stranger?

Although it did come up with a drunk guy who came on to me yesterday. I bet he recalls nothing. Not that there’s much to recall.

“I’m a nun,” I said.

“It can’t be true,” he said repeatedly.

I get that a lot.

People take appearances too seriously, which brings up my friend Frank.

“Saying hello from East Germany,” was Frank’s first FB message. In his profile picture, he was sitting by a pool in a bathing suit, a gorgeous guy with a friendly smile. We started to chat and didn’t stop for three years.

His initial profile picture was probably taken two decades ago. In more recent pictures, his hair wasn’t black. It was red. But hey, I also dyed my hair red once. It actually looked pretty hot.

Then he posted pictures of himself and his best friend. The body language said, “We are a couple.” I invited both of them to Tel Aviv. He invited me to East Germany. It was never simply “Germany.”

Now I’m glad I didn’t go. He probably would have locked me in a cellar and tried to get state secrets out of me.

For me, friendship is forever: a life of love and loyalty. True, my first best friend joined forces with the class’s evil queen. I lost the only supporter I had for my plan to rescue our out-of-control class along with the world in general, winning the cutest boy’s heart in the process.

Like a female James Bond.

There were others after her. But I don’t harbor bad feelings.

Frank wanted me to send him pictures of the park I meditate in. Maybe he thought that “meditation” was a code name for my nocturnal meetings with the head of the Mossad.

Why else in a political debate we had, would he have accused me of being a Mossad agent?

Shocked, I looked at his timeline and saw new information there. He was no longer a Conflict Resolution Consultant (which he seemed pretty good at, judging by his past advice to me). Instead, he’d finished some Russian military academy with honors.

Then he blocked me.

Sigh.

But you know what? For three years, Frank was a great friend.

As for Eddie, once he gets over the business-card shtick, I’m sure we’ll become great friends as well.

Either way, no matter the heartbreaks, love always wins…because it never leaves my heart.

Tel Aviv is small compared to NYC, for example, but it definitely has an urban vibe. From clubs to bars, cafés and restaurants, there are many places to hang until the small hours of the night. As for being like the Dalai Lama, I have a few years’ experience as a New Age Nun, which is my term for choosing a spiritual lifestyle and having an addiction to makeup…

That said, the way I react to injustices may get me out of the list of folks even remotely resembling the Dalai Lama—if there were such a list.

But I do focus on “seeing others as souls”—using Ram Dass’ words—and I love people. Devoted to daily meditation in the park, I send good thoughts and blessings to those going through wretched times on our planet. Plus I’m always ready to rescue others (whether they want it or not, but that’s for another post). And I really, really want everybody to be happy. Including you.

So back to Movieing, my favorite café in Tel Aviv. It’s after midnight, and I’m sitting at the counter with my laptop. Good music is playing in the background. It’s time to go to the bar upstairs and say hello to Adam, a nice guy I befriended here last summer. He came in a while ago with two of his friends, Joy and Sarah. I clicked with them immediately.

It’s packed upstairs. Adam and his friends are sitting by the bar, and I stand next to Adam. A guy whom none of us seems to know is sitting at the far end of the bar next to Joy. He keeps asking me to come over and talk to him as well.

I decline politely.

After hearing what everybody is doing, I tell them that I’m writing.

“Are you writing a book?” Joy asks.

“I’d rather call it my project nonsense,” I say in my usual low-key fashion, “so as not to jinx it. I’m at the editing stage.”

We chat for a while, and I’m about to leave.

“I would buy any book if your picture is on the cover,” the guy none of us seems to know says out of the blue.

“Me too,” Joy says.

“Me too,” Sarah says.

“Me too,” Adam chimes in.

I thank them humbly and go home. But I can’t avoid arriving at the following conclusions:

1. The best place to sell books is in bars.

2. People will buy my book if my picture is on the cover and they are drunk.

3. Despite my “nun-ness,” I can still get a boyfriend. At least in bars.

To be frank, I’m not fond of cameras unless they take pictures of cats. If I ever get to walk the red carpet, I will probably be the only one wearing jeans and ducking and dodging the cameras. But this is different, and I’m going to take a selfie right now. The blurrier the better.

You will find my novel at your local bar next week. Make sure to drink a double scotch, no ice, before reading it. You’ll have a blast, guaranteed.

It’s after midnight, and I am at Movieing, my favorite café in Tel-Aviv. The place is still packed despite the hour. Good music. Great coffee. Dimmed lights. I’m sitting at the counter with my laptop, and there are a couple of empty stools on my left.

Someone approaches me. He is French and he is gorgeous, but that’s not why I get enthused. I’ve seen him here before and heard that he is in the film industry. Now I wish I could remember if he is a director or a producer. But no worries. Either way, it’s going to work out for me.

“May I sit here?” he asks.

“Of course,” I reply, and he sits down next to me. Chitchatting, I learn that he is from Cannes—as in the Cannes Film Festival. Surely, such a chance meeting between an aspiring writer and a producer from Cannes is kismet. I can already see myself walking the red carpet…Ooops. Wrong day-dream. Abort! Wrong day-dream. I thought that I was over with the rock star shtick.

“What is it that you are doing?” the gorgeous producer asks, pointing at my computer.

“I’m writing,” I reply.

“Are you writing a book?”

“Actually, I’m at the editing stage.”

“May I read something?”

I catch my breath. My life will never be the same.

“Sure.” Reading the beginning is essential, plot-wise. “I’ll scroll back to page one.”

“I just want to read one paragraph. Whatever page you are on right now, will do.” Well, it’s page four, not one. But who would argue with a big producer from Cannes? Maybe I’ll get to walk the red carpet, after all. JK Rowling did. And although one of my two main characters is American – the protagonist is from outer space – what harm would it do to move him and his family to Paris?

I get a glimpse of the movie trailer in my mind’s eye: everybody speaks English with a French accent except the aliens…Meanwhile, he has finished reading and he looks at me admiringly. Let’s face it: I’m hot. And I don’t mean my looks or personality.

“I didn’t think you would be writing something like that,” he says in awe. So what did he think that I’d be writing? “I was sure that you’d be writing romantic stuff.” Thank heavens he didn’t read page twelve.

“Well, this is exactly what I needed,” he says and seems profoundly pleased, which is very wonderful. Where are the papers to sign? “It was really interesting,” he adds as he stands up. “I have to go now. My buddies have just arrived. Good luck to you with that.”

Not so fast, Mister. “What are you doing in Cannes?”

I had to ask.

“Boring stuff. Marketing electronics. I wish I could do something creative like you. Maybe one day I’ll get into writing, too.”

No films and no red carpets, shish kebab.*

“It was really interesting,” he says again before he leaves.

*Shish kebab: oh no, oy vey, sh** as well as wow, fantastic, get out of here. It also means a Mediterranean food.