After driving around Be'er Sheva, a desert town in southern Israel, for 15 minutes looking for my summer program's closing party, I pulled into a gas station for directions. When the attendant walked out of the building, I was struck by his exceptional beauty: long, curly hair, flashing eyes, great energy. Besides getting directions, I thought, I'd definitely have to get some gas.

"Are you a student here?" he asked in Hebrew, unscrewing the cap on the tank.

"Sort of," I replied. "I'm in the Hebrew-immersion summer program."

"So how's your Hebrew?" he continued. In a daze, I didn't answer. "Not that great, I guess," he laughed. "So are you leaving Israel now that the program is done?" (I was flying home to California the next week, but didn't want to ruin the moment.) "No," I lied.

We introduced ourselves while he filled the tank. I knew immediately from his name, Muhammed, that he wasn't Jewish like me; no Jewish mother would name her kid after a Muslim prophet! (full article)