The Israelis do not mess around with airport security.
Today, I learned that one (not me, but someone apparently) can make a bomb using a stick of deodorant, an apricot granola bar, salt and halva.
Carrying these things and a Jordanian stamp in one’s passport makes Israeli security uneasy. They will unpack your bags completely, swab everything down, run your shoes and bags through the x-ray three times and get very, very close with your breasts.
The first woman, who was just checking my passport asked me a gazillion questions about who I’d seen in Jordan and where I’d been and who I’d seen in Israel and where I’d been and asked who had packed my bag and if anyone had given me any gifts to take on the plane. I told her no one had and then she reiterated and said “I’m afraid that someone might have given you explosives.” My assurances that I’m just a girl visiting her college friends because she’s never been to the Middle East before were not enough.
Really, while it was a bit of a hassle, I’m happy to have them be thorough. Being dead isn’t on my list of things to do quite yet.