Imagine the following scenario:

You call the New York Times and ask for Thomas Friedman's home number. And the receptionist gives it to you, without asking any questions - not even your name.

You call Thomas Friedman at home, his wife answers and says, "Tom! Phone for you...!"

Tom comes to the phone, you introduce yourself and say that you read his column about an ex-CIA chief who just wrote his memoirs and you'd like to read the book and write about it for your own newspaper, but it's not available yet and could he help you obtain a copy.

Tom says, "You know what, I don't have any copies, but here's the home number of the ex-CIA chief. Call him, tell him you got the number from me and ask if you can have a copy of the book. I'm sure he'll be happy to help."

So you call the ex-CIA chief and his wife answers. "He's watching an interview he did on television right now. Could you call back in 20 minutes?"

Sure, you say.

You call back in 20 minutes and the ex-CIA chief answers. You explain your burning need for a copy of his book and he immediately says, "Come to my house tomorrow morning between 9 and 10. Here's my address, I'm on the 10th floor."

So the next morning you go to the ex-CIA chief's home and it turns out to be a modest apartment in a normal, middle class neighbourhood. He answers the door himself, ushers you into the small room he uses as an office, pulls a copy of his new book out of a plastic shopping bag and gives it to you. You shake his hand and thank him, he reminds you to mention the name of the publishers in the article and asks if you'd be so kind as to send him a copy once it's published.

Then he escorts you to the front door, thanks you and says goodbye.

If you replace all the above institutions and people with their Israeli equivalents, then you'll more or less have a picture of what I did last night and this morning.

I swear.