"I've got interviews lined up tomorrow with some top Palestinian Authority (PA) officials in Ramallah," Gal told me over the phone. "Do you want to come?" Yes, he said in response to my questions, I could sit in on the interviews and ask my own questions.

So who are these officials? I asked.

I'm not saying, he answered teasingly. But they're very high up. You'll be happy.

There was just one problem: My press card hadn't been processed, and my Canadian passport had expired. The IDF does not allow private Israeli citizens to enter Area A (controlled and administered by the PA), which includes Ramallah. But I really, really wanted to go - so I started making phone calls. I called the army spokesman's office, the civilian issues office and the Government Press Office, and they all said "no way." Nobody was impressed by my lovely Canadian manners or my earnest pleading. No. No. No. No exceptions.

Entering Ramallah is no problem. You just walk through a tall, squeaking, multi-arm turnstile; no-one checks ID cards going in - just going out. So Gal couldn't understand why I was making such a big deal out of getting permission. His unspoken attitude was, basically, let's just go and we'll worry about your not having a press pass when we leave. After all, what could possibly happen? The IDF wasn't likely to keep me a prisoner in Ramallah, right?

Well, no. But I had a reason to worry a little. The thing is, I went to Ramallah, alone, a couple of weeks ago. One of the journalists I'd met in Amman picked me up on the other side of the checkpoint in her adorable little Audi sportscar, took me out for lunch and a tour of the town, and then drove me back to the checkpoint. And that's when I got into a bit of a situation.

The young Israeli woman soldier who checked my ID card took one look at my address, stared up at me from under her oversized helmet, upon which she'd doodled with a black marker, and said, in an incredulous tone, "You're from Tel Aviv? What are you doing here?"

Playing it cool, I said, "I just went to have lunch with a friend. She's a journalist based in Ramallah and we know each other professionally."

This young woman soldier may have been half a head shorter than me and barely out of her teens, but she had, as my mother would say, "A mouth on her."

"Liar!" she said. "You're one of those Tel Aviv leftists. You probably go into Area A all the time, to do God knows what. You know it's illegal to go there. Did you know that I could call the police now, that they could arrest you and make you pay a 5,000 shekel fine? What, are you going to go out to Dome (a Tel Aviv disco) tonight to dance with all the homos?"

Ding, ding, ding! See Lisa's fuses light up?

A white-haired soldier who looked far too old to be doing reserve duty intervened before Corporal Mouth and I could get into a hissing match. He gave me a fatherly lecture about all this being for my own good. I listened patiently until he'd finished; I could see that he was a nice man doing a really shitty job, and he meant well - and besides, I wasn't so stupid as to make an issue out of the woman soldier's totally unacceptable behaviour when my position wasn't exactly solid. And that was it. I took a mini-van taxi back to Jerusalem and went home to Tel Aviv.

But I didn't want to risk another run-in with the same soldier; I knew she wouldn't have forgotten our encounter that quickly, which meant that she'd have it in for me. So in the end I called Gal and told him, regretfully, that I wouldn't be able to accompany him to Ramallah the following day.

Less than 10 minutes after I spoke with Gal, my mobile rang.

"LEE-sa," said a familiar voice, "Keef?*"

It was "Youssef," another Palestinian journalist I'd met in Amman.

We exchanged happy greetings, and then Youssef came to the point of his call. Listen, he said in a humorous tone, I heard you want to come visit me but you can't get permission. Write down this mobile number for Captain X (an IDF officer). Call him, use my name and he'll sort everything out. See you tomorrow.

Which is how Gal and I ended up having lunch with Youssef and a few other "Amman veterans" at a restaurant in downtown Ramallah on Wednesday afternoon.

The PA officials Gal had arranged to interview were, as he'd promised, very senior. We sat in well-appointed offices, drank the sweet tea that was served on a tray, and I finally got to ask some of the questions I'd been wishing I could ask Palestinian officials since the beginning of the intifada.

The second interview was conducted in Hebrew, Arabic and English. The minister spoke Arabic with Gal, while one of his aides translated into Hebrew for me. I took notes in English and Hebrew. But Gal's spoken Arabic is not fluent, so occasionally he would ask for a clarification in Hebrew. And when the Hebrew speaking aide left the room for a few minutes, I asked some questions in English - speaking slowly and clearly because the minister's grasp of the language was pretty sketchy. Everyone chain smoked, the windows were closed because the air-conditioning was on and pretty soon we were enveloped by a revolting gray cloud of cigarette smoke. Every so often, a young man would enter carrying a tray of freshly-brewed sweet tea, served in small glasses.

After the interview was over, I pulled out my camera and did the photo op thing. Then the aide insisted on accompanying us downstairs and inviting us for a cold drink in a little cafe. He wouldn't leave us alone until Youssef arrived to take us for lunch, and he wouldn't let us pay. We drank a refreshing bottled yogurt drink and chatted while "Hotel California" played on the stereo in the background.

How did you learn Hebrew? I asked the aide.

Oh, he said, I spent 10 years in Israeli jails. I was arrested when I was a student because I'd joined Fatah, and when I got to jail I taught myself Hebrew from a book called "Elef Milim" (A Thousand Words). You know "Elef Milim"? It's an Israeli textbook. They use it to teach Hebrew to new immigrants.

*"How are you" in Palestinian dialect.