Comic Relief

"Rega, rega, bachur" (Wait a minute, young man)
I heard this warning, in heavily accented Hebrew, as I was walking hurriedly towards the Israeli consulate in Mexico City.  Hailing me, was a stocky police officer, who looked even stockier due to the heavy body armor he was wearing.
"Le'an?" (where to?) he asked
As he examined my passport, I noticed that he was part of an armed police detail that guarded the tree-lined block.  He asked me, this time in Spanish, to leave my day-pack with him.
"Bitachon meshuga." (Crazy security.)  he  apologized with a smile.
Despite the stress, I could not help but like this jovial, Hebrew-speaking cop.  Eventually, I was let into the embassy complex.

That day, I had to return to the consulate twice more, and on each entry and exit, the cop, who was by now my friend, regaled me with his perfect colloquial Hebrew.  Despite my growing irritation with the bureaucrats inside, he never failed to elicit from me a hearty lough.
For a breakfast spot, he suggested a place that offers "Shakshuka"  (Eggs scrambled with vegetables).
"Bete'avon, achi!'  (Bon apetit, bro!)

As he handed back my day-pack for the last time, we exchanged hearty shoulder pats, and he added,
"Ani Golani' (I am from the Golani Brigade).
The smile did not leave my face, all the way to the subway station.