Forty-five minutes later, the driver finally appears and walks onto the bus. The engine rumbles as it chugs over to us. I rush to get on before anyone else and choose a seat near the front. A man walks down the aisle and collects our passports. Even though we’ll get back once we cross, parting with my passport makes me anxious. It’s another thirty minutes before we actually start moving. The moment we do, warm orange liquid pours onto my head and down my back. I look up—an open can of Mirinda that someone left on the luggage rack has toppled over. I breathe deeply and gaze out the window at the Jordan River passing beneath the bridge, which serves as the demarcation line between Jordan, to the east, and Israel and Palestine, to the west. It’s really just an idyllic stream running over stones and between muddy banks. But the word river makes arbitrary borders seem inevitable.

Less than two minutes later we are on the other side. The driver pulls in front of the Israeli customs office, turns off the ignition, and steps off the bus, shutting its door behind him. We wait. I’m hungry, thirsty, tired, and covered in sticky orange soda. The bus door opens and a new official steps onto the bus. He walks up and down the aisle calling out names and handing back our passports. By the time he’s done we are all standing, eager to exit. When the doors open once again, I push my way past the others and rush inside to customs.

A large Israeli flag hangs over the officials’ booths, along with Hebrew letters. A line has somehow already formed. I eventually get up to the counter and again hand over my passport. As I’ve come to expect, the official holds on to it, and I am told to return to the waiting area. “For how long?” I ask.

“Someone will come for you,” he says. “For questioning.”

I sit in a plastic chair and wait. A box of tissues sits on the table in front of me, a plastic waste bin beside it. I look around at pictures of President Clinton seeming pleased with himself as he presides over Yasser Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin shaking hands on the White House lawn. I glance past the customs desk and out the window at the giant banner that reads, “Welcome to Israel,” knowing I may not make it in. I try to sign on to the complimentary Wi-Fi but can’t connect to the network. I give up trying and take out a book instead.