I was treated to the sight of an ultra, ultra Orthodox Jew wading into the sea fully clothed - fur hat, long wool coat, shoes and socks
Whenever I return to the Holy Land, I see my life flash before my eyes. I came here for the first time during the first intifada, in the late 1980s, while writing a book and shuttling between London and the West Bank and Gaza.
The HQ for journalists and diplomats was - and still is - the American Colony Hotel on Nablus Road. I watched the other correspondents wine and dine each other in the lovely courtyard as I ate my lone cheese sandwich. Eventually the manager took pity and gave me a room for $30. The room was next to the mosque, and every morning at 4.15am I was awakened by the call to prayer.
Now I am staying at the opposite side of the hotel. The hotel has aged, and so have I. I can track the highs and lows of my life - assignments good and bad; marriage, divorce, marriage, pregnancy, books - through these walls. The staff are relieved I am grown up at last, a wife and mother. However, the past is never far behind. This is largely because for decades Ibrahim has overseen the Cellar Bar, with all of its debauched escapades.
He reminds me of an evening more than a decade ago. Much wine drunk and a late-night swim taken. No disclosure, but everything done in full view of the restaurant. "Care for a little swim, Janine?" Ibrahim continues to taunt me, to this day.
Costly bullets
I am standing on Omar al-Muktar Street in Gaza town watching Fatah's security forces protest. This is the middle of the Fatah-Hamas stand-off, and the guys shout slogans and wave AK-47s. Every few seconds, there's the pop of a gun being fired, and my Palestinian friend flinches. "No wonder Hamas got elected," he says. "They know about economising." The bullets have risen in price and now cost 15 shekels each - about $4. No self-respecting revolutionary, he says, would waste that much on firing in the air. "It's like a Russian wedding party," he snorts.
I later return to Gush Katif, the former Jewish settlement bloc that was "disengaged" last August. I remember going, roughly 15 years ago, to an ultra-Orthodox resort called the Palm Beach Hotel. There I was treated to the sight of an ultra-ultra Orthodox Jew wading into the sea fully clothed - fur hat, long wool coat, shoes and socks.
Today I walk on rubble where the hotel once was. Every tile, every electrical wire, was taken away when the settlers fled.
We walk further. Now there are Gazan women wading into the sea, dressed in full-length robes and headscarves; teenagers swimming in jeans and T-shirts.
The beach is beautiful and calm but, like everywhere in Gaza, there is always an undercurrent of danger. A few days later, on a beach a few miles away, an Israeli shell lands on a scene just like this one. It kills seven Palestinians, mostly members of a family celebrating the last day of school with a picnic.
Mistaken identity
Because the British press is often accused of being one-sided, I spend as much time as possible with my Israeli friends. Granted, they are all liberals, but my friends all over the world are liberals. I meet with good people I have known for years, people who believe in justice and freedom, even in these cynical times. These are people who might have inspired the lyrics to "We Shall Overcome".
But I also have my apolitical mates in Tel Aviv. With them, no one even thinks about suicide bombers. We talk of food, hotels and Sofia Coppola. At the home of a handsome gay couple, we eat on their terrace overlooking old Jaffa and the host makes a toast.
"Even though the name Janine di Giovanni is dangerous in Israel, she is always welcome at our table."
This is a reference to my name, which is also the name of a town in the West Bank. Jenin means baby in Arabic (actually "unborn baby", so my name is technically Foetus di Giovanni), but sadly the town itself has become synonymous with "city of suicide bombers". The young soldiers at checkpoints look baffled whenever I hand over my documents: "Your name is Jenin?" I was once trying to answer - that my name is French, not Arabic at all - when from the back seat a CNN colleague piped up: "You should meet her sister, Ramallah."
The checkpoint queue was slow going that day.
Janine di Giovanni's "The Place at the End of the World" is published by Bloomsbury (£8.99)
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