How do you put together a special supplement meant for the foreign journalists who have come to cover the disengagement, without using the word disengagement?

Yes, boys and girls, that is the task I was given last week. Um, let's see... "Historical political events"? "An important story"?

Welcome to the wonderful world of Israeli journalism: you have one week, no budget, no staff and no resources, but we trust you to create an interesting product. Which is why I contacted a couple of people I've never met and asked them to work for free. And lovely souls that they are, they both agreed.

Dan wrote a kick-ass insider's article on what to see and do in Jerusalem; and Orly let me use some of her gorgeous photographs for illustrations. You'll find the supplement at hotels in Tel Aviv and Jerualem from August 16. Look for the cover illustration of a larger-than-life photojournalist, heavily laden with camera equipment, sitting on top of a hotel and reading a newspaper.

So I finally put the supplement "to bed" at around 4 o'clock on Thursday morning, went to sleep just after 5 o'clock and was awoken by a phone call five hours later. A friend of mine wanted to know if I'd like to accompany him to to opening of an art exhibition in Bethlehem, where a couple of his photographs would be displayed. Oh yes, and would I mind writing the explanatory notes for the photographs before we set out, so that he could email them to the curator?

During the ride up to Jerusalem my friend, who is a hardcore leftist, pulled out his little Gush Shalom pin from his bag, which had a blue ribbon flying from its strap, and attached the intertwined Israeli and Palestinian flags to his shirt collar. I wrinkled my nose, because I am uncomfortable with the idea of advertising one's political beliefs, and muttered quietly, "Must you?"

The look he shot me was eloquent. Yes, it seemed that he must.

Checkpoint tourism

So we rode in a Palestinian mini-bus from just outside Damascus Gate to the checkpoint at Beit Jala. I'd travelled this way before, but then I was the only non-Arab in the van. So I was a bit, um, surprised to find that my fellow passengers included four Koreans. Turns out that they were here for some kind of peace march which was basically ignored by the media; practically every journalist in the area is focusing exclusively on the story in Gush Katif.

Alighting at the checkpoint, I almost ran into two American tourists who were standing on the pavement - both blonde, plump, sweaty and wearing baseball caps. One of them clutched a guidebook called "Let's Go Travel Guide: Israel and the Palestinian Territories." The woman looked at me and, pointing dramatically at the Israeli soldiers standing quietly, guarding the deserted checkpoint just a few metres away, said, "Listen, it's scary over there!"

In my cranky, overtired state, I judged this woman rather harshly. I thought she was silly. I imagined that she was going to go home to suburban America and tell her friends at the gym all about the dreadful Israeli soldiers oppressing the poor Palestinians. I had the impression that she was full of preconceptions and relishing the drama of seeing armed soldiers in uniform and checkpoints. So I was mean to her. I looked at her and said, "Sorry, I don't speak English."

My friend and I walked up to the checkpoint, showed our Israeli ID cards and my press pass to the soldiers, who smiled and said hello, and crossed over to The Other Side. We bought chewing gum (made in Romania, 1 shekel per package) from a little Palestinian boy who sold his stock out of a flat box hung from his neck, like a cigarette girl in a 1940s nighclub. We stopped a taxi and my friend asked the driver, in his broken Arabic (learned from the Sinai bedouin when he worked there as a tourist guide) to take us to Bethlehem.

Why are you afraid?

The driver smiled and said, in perfect Hebrew, "Where are you from? Tel Aviv? So speak Hebrew to me!"Once in Bethlehem, the driver stopped to ask directions to the exhibition. A group of men gathered around the taxi, each pointing in a different direction, until one man broke through and, waving an ID card, said, "I'm a tourist guide and I know exactly where you need to go. I'll ride with you and direct the driver."

On the way up, he asked us if we were Israelis. Upon hearing our confirmation he started to speak broken Hebrew, assuring us that it had been fluent once, before the checkpoints and the separation barrier were erected and Israelis could no longer visit the West Bank. I haven't spoken Hebrew for five years, he said, So I'm out of practice. He added that he had heard a few people speaking Hebrew very softly in the Bethlehem market. They're with your group, right? he said. Yes, I thought so. But they were afraid to be identified as Israelis, he said, laughing.
Why are you all so afraid of us?

The dialogue industry

The exhibition was held at the Lutheran church, a beautiful new building with a flower-filled garden and shiny, polished marble floors. It was curated by a young Palestinian woman with curly dark hair, who wore jeans and a T-shirt. She had studied with my friend at the Bezalel Academy in Jerualem, during that mythical pre-2000 era when Bethlehem was basically a suburb of Jerusalem and there were no walls, barriers or checkpoints. She and the pastor welcomed the small group of Palestinians, Israelis and western NGO volunteers. They spoke softly about a more hopeful future.

The pastor, a gentle-looking young man with small round glasses and a receding hairline, announced proudly that the church had mounted the exhibition without outside funding. We don't believe in this thing that I call the "dialogue industry," he said. We believe that if Israelis and Palestinians are to find a way to live together, we must look for resources at home - not abroad.

So we mingled and drank fruit juice out of plastic cups as we looked at the various exhibits. After awhile my friend and I decided to go find something more substantial than pretzels to eat, and wandered around until we found a little hole-in-the-wall selling felafal, hummous and salads. On the way we photographed wall posters of "martyrs," as well as some children who were riding their bicycles and eating ice cream cones. When they saw us they grinned and pointed at us, calling out, "Yahud! Yahud!" (Jew! Jew!) as they whizzed by.

So I laughed and pointed back, calling out, "Arab! Arab!" The kids circled back. They watched my friend take photographs and smiled at us, their white ice cream moustaches curving upward. They were too young to remember a time when Jews not wearing army uniforms wandered around Bethlehem, but they still knew what Hebrew sounded like. And they were curious.

The guys who made our felafel smiled too, and spoke to us in a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic. They didn't make a big deal out of having Israelis in their shop, just treated us with offhand friendliness.

Gush Katif - working the disengagement

While we were eating our felafels, my mobile phone rang. An American reporter had obtained my contact information from another journalist, and wanted to hire me to accompany him on interview rounds in Gush Katif on Monday and Tuesday, the first two days of the disengagement. That was, in fact, the third job offer I'd received from foreign journalists; I'd turned the previous two down because they wanted me to stay with them for a week and I had obligations in Tel Aviv. So we settled the terms on the phone, and I will be leaving for Gush Katif on Sunday night.

I am a bit nervous about interviewing people as they deal with the trauma of leaving their homes, and am bracing myself for some very painful encounters. To make matters worse, there is going to be a heat wave. Temperatures are supposed to hit 44 Celsius, and the humidity will be around 80 percent. What a recipe for frayed nerves.

Going home

The organizers of the exhibition had arranged for a minivan to take us back to Tel Aviv. While we waited for the van to arrive, a Palestinian police officer stopped to talk to us, and a crowd of children gathered around. We joked and smiled, and my friend took photos of the police officer - who was young, handsome and macho. As we passed through the checkpoint that separated Bethlehem from Israeli territory, I glanced back and saw a sign that said, in Hebrew, "WARNING! You are now entering Palestinian-controlled territory."

The taxi driver who picked us up from the drop off point in Tel Aviv said, "I hope you don't want to go to the anti-disengagement demonstration in Rabin Square. It's impossible to get anywhere near there." Then he and my friend started talking about basketball, and I let my thoughts wander as they did their male bonding thing. As we were leaving the taxi I said to the driver, So, are you going to call it a night and go home now?

"Are you kidding?" he asked mockingly. "I'm gonna make a ton of money taking all those settlers home." Then he winked and drove off.

Coffee in the bubble

We walked over to Gili's outdoor coffee bar on Rotshchild Boulevard, where we met up with friends who live in the neighbourhood and were out strolling or walking their dogs. It was a typically humid Tel Aviv summer night, and kids were out on their rollerblades and scooters, even though it was past 11 o'clock. The restaurants were full, and there was that holiday atmosphere that is so characteristic of Tel Aviv during the summer months.While we were drinking our cappuccinos, a friend leaned over and asked me if I was going to the farewell party at Ha'Oman, one of Tel Aviv's hottest new clubs. It was supposed to start around midnight.

No way, I said. I'm exhausted. Farewell party for whom?

For the owner, she said. He's going to jail for six months on tax evasion, and he's throwing himself a huge bash on his last night of freedom. How decadent is that?