After a while, staring at the view through my scratched glasses and the double glazing of the bus window starts giving me a headache, and I give up and turn to my reading (Ulysses, of all books) and writing. There is still quite a while before I even get to Beit She'an, which is my first stop on the way to Amman, but I'm already in a travel set of mind and things seem like abroad; then the bus makes a stop and picks up another soldier, while the ridiculous pseudo-religious argument on the radio is heating up, and there is no way I can be mistaken.

What amazes me about this whole trip is the easiness with which it all happened. A chance meeting, a conversation, a couple of emails, and here I am on my way to Jordan with a packed lunch and my backpack stuffed with travel items (and Ulysses) instead of the usual books and papers. Another chance meeting right here on the bus with someone else who's travelling to Amman – I heard him talking to the driver, said 'hey, me too!', and hey presto, I have somebody to share the taxi to Amman with.

This trip definitely seems to be starting the right way.

***

There goes my shared ride, off at Allenby Bridge, which Israelis can't go through for some reason. It is incredibly close to the main road – I wonder what the Sheikh Hussein Bridge is like. But I'm enjoying the ride so far. I've only just realised how long it's been since I've last been to this area. The Judea Desert is beautiful, and in this time of year it's covered by a delicate green plumage, giving a slightly livelier hue to the beige slopes; I've missed it. I wonder what the other side looks like.

***

The green plumage grows thicker as we drive north, out of the desert. Fields. Orchards. Fresh produce stalls. Everything becomes more cultivated, but pretty in its own way. A sign to Beit She'an – we must be nearly there.

Then we are there, driving through the depressing residential blocks. Looks like every other Israeli small town I've ever passed through. Kiriyat Malachi, Kiriyat Gat, Ofakim – all different, but all basically the same, with their housing blocks and the pointless villas that look like they don't belong there and the deserted commercial centres. In the one by the bus station I walked around looking for a toilet; half the stores were closed, the other half empty. The whole place looks like it has fallen asleep. People were nice though – the woman who gave me directions to the toilet also got me some toilet paper out of her handbag, in case there wasn't any. And when I asked a service taxi driver about getting to the bridge he took me out of his route to get me to his friend that was going to the border.

The border pass is also deserted and sleepy. I went to the Duty Free shop, just to have a look at it, and was the only one there, observed by snickering security people with nothing better to do. There was something almost surreal about that, and about the long wait for the bus to the Jordanian side with a silent Danish UN guy.

***

I spent most of the ride to Amman, in a taxi I shared with a student from Umm al Fahem, falling asleep despite my attempts to stay up and look at the scenery. What I have seen of it is – of course – much like Israel. Geologically you can see how it is the same thing. Only when we passed a place of settlement it was obvious that we are in a different country.

The only drawback was finding out that my mobile is refusing to connect to any of the local networks, which meant I couldn't contact my host Anne until I got to our agreed meeting-place at the Marriott Hotel, where I asked to make a call from the lobby. I later found out that it just doesn't work abroad, and so kept it shut off for the next days, until I got back to the border pass.

The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful, mainly spent getting to know a bit of Amman's foreign student community. Kanabaye, a bar downtown, was having a 'ladies night' with free drinks for women, in an attempt to attract more clientele, and so me, Anne and her friends Josh and Aaron headed there, to meet with some more students (most of them also American, but some French and Spanish) and try to talk with them over the much-too-loud-for-anybody's-good music. The local women hardly go to bars, which is why the population of the place was mainly the 'foreign circle'. It's a small community, explains Anne, and even if there's no direct connection, eventually everyone runs into everyone else.

It's an early night for Anne and me though, and after I make the necessary email to my parents to let them know all's well, we both go to sleep. Tomorrow's plan – downtown Amman.

***

There honestly isn't that much to Amman. I have seen the Roman ruins today – they're quite impressive, but you get the point quickly. And the museums are downright shabby. We've seen three of those: two at the Roman theatre (the folklore museum and the popular traditions museum, which were basically the same), and an archaeology museum at the Citadel. They are all small, and seem sort of unkempt, especially when used to western standards.

There are hardly any tourists in Amman, but I've been recognised as one wherever I go, which is not surprising. I like it sometimes, it makes it easier to be clueless; once or twice I actually spoke Arabic with an American accent so there is no mistake that I am indeed a foreigner. In general, it is good to find out that I can get around quite well with my Arabic, though I need to ask people to speak slowly. But usually, for the little I need, it's fine.

Anne and her friend Chris, with whom I started my morning, left me on my own after we got out of Darat el-Funun - a very nice art gallery downtown - and went on to their errands. This gave me the chance to get lost downtown for a bit, winding around and around through the markets and the alleyways, until I had enough of that and decided to start on my way back. Getting to the area wasn't a problem; getting to the flat was. I meandered around the streets, burdened with the vegetables I got at the market, constantly being sure that I'm very close, before finally giving up and asking somebody which way to Ahmad-something Street. That was what I remembered of the street name – that's how clueless I was at the moment (this was one of the times when applying an accent came in handy). Since in the end it turned out the street name is Abu Jandal, it was lucky that the nice man who directed me there understood what I was talking about and directed me to the right place! I won't forget the name now – for what it's worth. Jordan only got street names fairly recently, and most people don't go by them but by landmarks. To get to Anne's flat, we tell the taxi drivers to go to Hotel Tyche, which is close enough to Abu Jandal Street.

Basically, this city is a mess. Apparently (according to my hosts) more 'western' and organised than other Middle-Eastern cities, but still quite a mess. It reminds me a bit of Eastern Jerusalem. I try not to be judgemental, I try not to be the typical-western-tourist, but I suppose there's nothing to do about it – I am western, whether I like it or not. And in my eyes, this isn't much of a city.

Tomorrow I should be going to Petra – that should be good. Petra and Jarash are the main two tourist attractions in Jordan, and apparently it's for a good reason. I actually might go to both – to be honest, I have no idea what I would do in Amman on Saturday otherwise.

***

Walking through Amman in early morning is different, and interesting. All the stores are closed down, except for a few restaurants that are just opening up, spreading smells of bread and petrol along the streets. Accompanied by Anne, I've had a slightly stressed brisk walk to the office of the Jett Bus Company, hoping to be in time for the bus to Petra, only to discover there is no longer a bus going to Petra at all and take a taxi to Wihdat Bus Station where we hoped we'd find a minibus going to Petra. Eventually we found a Serveece – a sort of taxi-bus that is very common around here – going for only three Dinars, so everything worked out fine. Anne went back to the flat to get some sleep. Now it's just a matter of watching the Serveece owner wash his car and check his engine while he's waiting for enough passengers to start the trip. He seems quite the Bedouin type, old, wrapped in a grey jacket, a dark robe and the traditional red kaffiyeh, taking his time smoking a cigarette; quite contrasted to the two younger man walking about and waiting with him for more passengers.

Another morning draws over Amman, hazy with dust and pollution, noisy with traffic. But today I go out into the desert.

***

The Serveece drives through dull flat arid scenery. I sleep most of the way, despite the loud radio (Quran readings) in the beginning of the trip, or the loud kids in the back, or the driver's cigarettes; only the driver's conversation about his three wives with the woman from the back sit is loud enough to make me wake up. It's a three-hour ride to Petra, and I'm tired.

Then we get to Wadi Musa, the little town by Petra, which is dominated by the tourist industry, with hotels and restaurants and souvenir shops everywhere. As you walk into Petra you are immediately attacked by guides trying to get you to hire them, or a horse or carriage (for those after the tacky movie-like experience). One of those, Atef, kept walking by my side and talking to me until eventually I agreed to go with him, because he offered to take me on a shortcut and because he was a nice guy. As it turned out, this was a good thing to do. We climbed up the steep slopes in little paths that I would never have found on my own, with no other tourists about, and had quite an interesting conversation along the way. Besides, Atef is one of those local guides who know everybody around, which cut down on hassle and also got me a couple of free cups of tea. He did try to convince me to stay in Wadi Musa for the night, but I was determined that I want to get back to Amman that day, so in the end he came with me on a taxi to the bus station, and after we found out there are no buses going to Amman got the taxi driver to take me to Ma'an for the locals' price of 5 Dinars. He got off the taxi without asking for any money for all of this day. Sometimes it's good to be a nice girl, I guess.

As for Petra itself, it was beautiful, and well worth the trip, despite the fact I didn't see everything because I was in a hurry to get back to Amman. In a way, it was good to do it in a hurry, as it didn't give me the chance to get tired of all the ruins. I should definitely come back though, perhaps with my parents, and see all that I've missed.

The taxi driver makes a stop to argue with the driver of another car, and I suddenly realise I'm here alone. I'm not exactly scared, just a little more aware of that fact. But so far, trusting people to be nice had proven itself, and I intend to keep doing it.

***

Ma'an used to be on the news at the time of the civil war back in the seventies, but now it is a little nothing of a place in the middle of the desert, looking as dusty and sleepy as desert towns tend to look like pretty much everywhere. There are two other men in the nice coach to Amman, where for some inexplicable reason the signs seem to be in Turkish. We are waiting for the bus to fill up so everybody is taking their time. Slowly more passengers gather, one person here, a few more there. A young man goes up and tries to sell some Mhallabiyyeh (a type of dessert), but nobody's interested and he goes back down. Everything is so sleepy that eventually I decide to just give in and sleep.

After a long while the bus fills up, a man passes along collecting a 1.15 Dinar fare, the Mhallabiyyeh guy passes again, there is a counting of passengers who want to go from Amman further north to Zarqa, the fare person passes again collecting an extra 0.35 fare, and we finally make our way out, back into Amman, through more stretches of dull desert. Besides being flatter, this looks a lot like the south of Israel, which makes sense really; Petra is different as it's all sandstone, which actually reminded me of the Tall Mountain area in Sinai, which is beautiful in its own (despite not having any impressive buildings carved into the stone).

After a short break in an Istiraha – a small building in the middle of nowhere, with a number of empty tables, fuzzy Jordanian football on TV, a small shop selling snacks and drinks, and scary toilets – the bus goes on again, in a cloud of cigarette smoke and the rustle of snack bags, and about an hour and a half later we are finally in Amman.

***

On the rickety little minibus going to Madaba, at one point the Arabic music on the radio gives way to Irish music, for no apparent reason. It is very weird, completely unrelated to where we are at the moment. The minibus drives at a frighteningly fast speed, and we got to Madaba pretty quickly.

Madaba is famous for its Byzantine mosaics, and especially the one that depicts a map of the holy land and which is inevitably disappointing after all you've read about it, since even though the detail is impressive it is nonetheless pretty small compared to what you're expecting. The rest of the town can be covered in about an hour or so. Anne and me have seen the small archaeological park, where we have been somehow locked in by mistake and had to climb out over the gate, fully aware of the fact that we are establishing our status as Two Crazy Foreigner Girls and laughing at it. Then we got lost looking for the museum – and when we finally found it, two Japanese-looking tourists warned us that it's very disappointing, and they were right. As with the other museums I've seen, this museum looked quite poor and shabby. However, being nice clueless tourist girls worked again, and the man in the ticket office let us get in for free, explaining that in that case we can only see the museum, not the archaeological park or the Church of the Apostles. So, having seen the park already, we happily agreed to that deal and decided to give up on whatever mosaic is in the Church of the Apostles, and went from the museum to have a nice relaxed lunch in a good restaurant before catching a taxi to Mount Nebo.

The view from Mount Nebo was amazing, even though it wasn't a clear day. I suspect that if it were clear I could have seen my home, which is a somewhat strange thought – I have so often looked at the Jordan Mountains and wondered what it would be like to look back from the other side, and there I was actually on the other side, but couldn't see all the way back home. There is also a church on the mountain, with more mosaics in it, but not much other than that.

***

We got back into Amman early (once again in a minibus going way too fast), because Anne had a class to go to, and so I had a chance to look around downtown a little more before getting back to the flat. Now, on my last day here, I am starting to get used to Amman, in a way. It's a small city and there isn't much to it, but it's nice. I guess it grows on you.

My last night in Amman was spent, as the two before it, watching DVDs with Anne and her friends. Tomorrow will be a day with a lot of travelling, as in order to cut on costs I will not take a taxi to the border but catch a bus to the northern city of Irbid and from there to Sheikh Hussein Bridge. A day from now, I will already be back home.

***

The day is a bit cloudy as I get ready to leave for the Abdali Bus Station, as if I've used up all the sun on my visit – it truly has been very lucky weather that I've been having for the last three days.

I say a goodbye and a thank you to Anne, and head out to the main road for a taxi. There is one that happens to be just standing by the side of the road, as if it's been waiting for me. The driver is of the talkative kind, and I tell him that I've been visiting a friend who goes to university here and am now on my way to Irbid and from there to the Israeli border. 'Are you from Palestine?' he asks, and after a short hesitation I answer that no, I'm Israeli, Jewish, from Jerusalem. He doesn't seem deterred by that, and we keep talking; turns out he is originally from Nablus – 'We're neighbours, then', I say, and he smiles. What do you say to someone who is probably a Palestinian refugee, or the son of refugees? What does he think of me? It's an awkward situation, but the driver's friendliness prevails. 'Inshallah,' I tell him right before he drops me off at the station, 'some day you'll return to Palestine'; and I mean it. The meter says 450 Fils, a little less than half a Dinar, but he refuses to take any money. And so, despite a mess-up on the bus when I don't realise the tickets are for certain seats (after a short while in Jordanian buses I was surprised there were tickets at all) and have to schlep my way to the front of the bus making countless apologies along the way, I start my trip back home with a good feeling.

***

People keep being helpful, pointing the poor clueless tourist the right way, making sure I get on the right bus. At the first bus station in Irbid somebody tries to ask for 10 Dinars to take me to the border, but I know better, and two minibus rides (0.5 Dinar total) later I am dropped off at the junction to the Sheikh Hussein Jordan River Border Pass, where I get a van that for another Dinar takes me all the way through to the checkpoint. As it was when I was coming in, there is a long wait for the bus that will take me over the slow green Jordan River into the Israeli side, but this time there are more people waiting. As the bus takes us over this ridiculously short way, I am surprised at the feeling of relief I have at the sight of the signs in Hebrew. After all, this has been a very short trip. But nonetheless, I am happy to be returning home.

***

The bus station in Beit She'an is full of soldiers on their way to their bases. I share some cheese with a friendly cat as they talk amongst themselves; some time later the bus driver arrives, and shortly after him the bus, and I start my last bit of travelling for that day. The journey is almost done. We drive along the Jordan valley, and as the sun starts to set I take a look east at the mountains on the other side, where only this morning I was making my way in the opposite direction. From now on, I know, when I look at the Jordan Mountains from my terrace on a good clear day, there will be something familiar about it.