In September 2000 I flew to Tel Aviv from Bangkok on Royal Jordanian Airlines. I'd spent the previous few months wandering around India, mostly in Himachal Pradesh, the Punjab and Rajasthan. My baggage consisted of a dusty, much-used backpack, a persistent case of dysentery (I probably shouldn't have drunk that unfiltered tap water when I was up in the mountains) and a rather bruised, post-breakup heart. My apartment in New York was sub-let for another two months, and the plan was to spend some time with old friends in Israel, check out Tel Aviv and see if I could find a job. If things worked out, I would stay; if not, I would go back to New York.

While Noorster and I were corresponding about our remarkably similar Jerusalem experiences (we even lived in the same dormitory building on the Hebrew University campus), I started to write her about my arrival in Israel four years ago - and then decided to leave her hanging, right in the middle, because hey, it's a blogworthy tale.

The flight:
I flew Royal Jordanian because it was the cheapest deal that Pattama, my favourite Bangkok travel agent, could find. The flight was via Doha, where there was a two-hour layover, and Amman, where Israel-bound passengers transferred to a small plane for the 20-minute journey to Tel Aviv.

Bangkok-Doha
There were a few other Israelis on the flight - young, pierced, tattooed, wearing the colourful, baggy and cheap clothes that tourists buy in India. They were friendly, chatty and completely certain that the young Jordanian guy with whom they struck up a conversation was just as interested in getting to know them as they were him. I felt a bit sorry for that polite young Jordanian, dressed in his Ralph Lauren Oxford cloth shirt, neatly pressed Levi's and loafers. He didn't seem to know quite what to do with those breezy, casual young Israelis and their incessant chatter. It was a long flight, and I watched as he sank further and further into his seat, speaking softly but never missing his conversational cue, probably wondering if he'd be obliged to keep talking for the entire flight. I wondered if he was uncomfortable because he didn't want the other passengers to see him being overly friendly with Israelis, or because his image of Israelis was being challenged. Or maybe he just wanted some peace and quiet.

We weren't allowed to disembark in Doha, so we stood in the aisles of the plane and looked out the windows at the vast brown expanse outside. All we could see was flat, dung-coloured earth, a long black strip of a highway, and a Mercedes dealership. It looked very hot out there.

At one point a middle-aged Muslim woman, dressed in a long cloak and a headscarf, pushed her way past us rather aggressively. She elbowed one of the Israeli girls, who was wearing a skimpy tank top and baggy trousers, in the ribs, stepped on my foot and muttered something in Arabic. What did she say? we asked the young Jordanian. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and muttered, She said that now you are in a Muslim country, so you should dress modestly.

Well. What do you say to that? (nothing).

Amman-Tel Aviv
There was a long queue for the toilets at the airport in Amman. The woman standing in front of me was wearing a huge, billowing black abaya and a hijab. When it was her turn to enter a toilet stall, she removed the entire garment with one fluid motion, flung it over the door - and suddenly she had a personality. Under the robe she was wearing a jade green silk suit, high-heeled pumps, a chunky gold necklace and matching earrings. She was wearing a lot of makeup, too. I was fascinated.

But even more fascinating was the fact that the Jordanian check-in staff for the Amman-Tel Aviv flight all spoke Hebrew. Good Hebrew. Were they Palestinians from the occupied territories who had learned the language the hard way? I wanted to ask, but hmmm...it didn't seem like an appropriate question.

Part of the very lengthy security check included a body search. I entered the curtained cubicle and was greeted by a grinning, gum-chewing young woman who had short, curly hair, wore pleated trousers belted snugly at the waist, and had rather a lot of violet-coloured eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids. She hooked an index finger over the seam of my white tank top (worn under a long-sleeved shirt), peered down my front and said, with mock shock, "What? No bra?" She winked at me conspiratorially and added, "Well, it makes things easier with the boyfriend, right?" She then patted me on the behind and said, "Yalla, you're done. Next!"

I couldn't stop giggling as I recounted the tale of my body search to the Israelis, as we sat drinking cappuccino near the gate.

My carry-on luggage consisted of a small purse and a tin of baklava I'd purchased at the duty free shop. But before I could board the flight I was called aside by yet another security officer. He started to empty my bag, which had already been X-rayed and searched, and was just opening my tube of lip balm when one of his colleagues called out something to him in Arabic. I caught the word for "enough," and, wanting to show off my 50-word vocabulary, said, jokingly, "Na'am, na'am khalaas." (Yes, yes, it's enough).

He looked up at me very seriously and said, in fluent Hebrew, "Yes, you are right. It's enough. I apologize. Please." And he handed me my purse.

But here's the thing: I was travelling on my Canadian passport. I wonder why he assumed that I spoke Hebrew? Don't any non-Israelis fly from Amman to Tel Aviv?

The plane that took me to Tel Aviv was the smallest I'd ever been on, but every one of its 50-odd seats was taken. The flight attendants spoke English, and the passengers spoke Hebrew. I didn't hear a word of Arabic throughout the flight, which was so short there was barely enough time to finish drinking my plastic cup of mineral water before the descent began. Not that we ever ascended that much: we flew so low - because the flight was so short - that I could see the lights of Jerusalem nearly as soon as the plane cleared Amman.

And then I was at Ben Gurion airport, hugging Diana.

NEXT: Tel Aviv during the last three weeks of the Oslo dream. And then everything exploded.