There was nothing fancy about the room. White walls, a tiled floor, strip lighting. The only decoration a dignitary's portrait and some framed insignia hung on the wall. Below them sat two officials wearing sky blue double-pocketed shirts with navy epaulettes.

I'd left Jordan earlier that day. Once you've seen Petra there's not much else. The formalities were as expected. We all got off the bus, joined the queue and handed over our passports. Those who made the trip regularly relaxed and spent little time before they received their stamp and the door clicked open. Tourists like myself adopted a stiffer expression, but not too stiff. Trying to take it seriously but not come across as nervous. The staff, trained to recognise the profile of the guilty, see through all that. After all, acting naturally is an oxymoron.

After handing him my passport he looked at me then my photo, back and forth a couple of times. He flicked through the pages, pausing near the middle before continuing to the end. Finally, after scanning the information page he pressed a button which hailed one of the two I now shared a room with.

One was a man in his early forties with close cropped hair and a firm jawline, the other a younger woman, young enough for me to wonder if she was on military service. Neither introduced themselves.

They began with the basics. I confirmed my name, date of birth and other identifying information. When told I was a barman, they wanted to know where. They wanted to know what shifts I usually worked, the name of my boss, what colour the carpet was (trick question, it had wooden floors), and what beers we sold. Probing ever deeper, into the minutiae of my life, pushing the limits hoping to catch me in a lie. I knew they were assessing my body language. An article came back to me which I'd read years ago. When retrieving information you look up and to the right, when conjuring a lie you look up and to the left. Or was it the other way round? I became overly conscious of every word I spoke, every twitch of my eye or every moment of pause.

Their queries continued, taking turns on each line of questioning. No notes were taken but I assumed it was all videoed anyway. They weren't overly formal but stuck to the task, no leading questions, not much in the way of body language, but no sign of concentration or effort either. Pretty much the look I'd been trying to pull off earlier. My brow raised unconsciously when replying to the woman and I smiled ever so slightly. After a few weeks in the Middle East I'd almost forgotten what female hair looked like.

They wanted to know if I was a member of any political organisations, if I'd ever served in the military or held a government job. I spent six months as a teaching assistant out of university which was technically a government job, but other than that my answers were all negative. I only had two memberships: one so I could use the local swimming pool and the other to get discounted travel on the supporters bus to away games.

The enquiries continued, pressing and probing, demanding details of my personal life, my education, my family, my non-existent car. Their blank expressions unchanging, professional, focused on the task. I wasn't as confident about my own performance. What I’d assumed was a formality had been taking longer than anticipated. Maybe there was something I'd done wrong, some reason to be taken aside. You hear about people being turned away at borders all the time, these things are taken seriously, especially in a country like Israel. Maybe something had flagged up when they scanned my passport, how much information do these intelligence agencies share? But even then... I knew I was overthinking things, too conscious of my answers. The lack of feedback exasperated me, not even a smirk or glance. It was like waiting for exam results: confident everything is fine but doubt nagging at you until it's confirmed.

“So, what were you doing in Lebanon?” Of course. I'd been so fixated on the issues an Israeli stamp would cause I'd forgotten the other side of the coin. The answer was simple: I was a tourist. I based myself in Beirut, eating well and drinking too much. From there I'd take day trips. It's a small enough country to see everything that way. I explored the ruins of Heliopolis, drunk watermelon cocktails on the beach south of Tyre, swam in mountainside pools overlooking the sea, and spent many hours lazing in bed recovering from the previous night.

Did I know anyone there? Well, I hung out with some folk. Mainly Canadian-Lebanese, I never knew there were so many of them. I got to know a few locals: the owner of the restaurant near the hostel, the barman at one of the places I'd purchase my hair of the dog, one of the receptionists. I might comment on the odd Instagram post but I wouldn't call them friends, most likely we'll never meet again.

I started to relax. There was nothing suspicious in my answers, in my movements, in my history. Their job was to compare the danger I posed to the security of their nation to the economic and reputational loss of refusing me entry. Sure, a week in Lebanon increases my risk profile but I hoped they'd see me for who I was: someone whose only threat to their state was taking a bus without a ticket, or perhaps public urination.

“So, why is it you want to visit Israel?” Surely there couldn't be much more. I was beginning to worry the bus had left without me.

“Well my mother was Jewish so I've always been interested in seeing what Israel was like.”

“Wait, your mother was Jewish?”

“Yes.”

“So that means you're Jewish.”

“Well, I'm not religious, I don't really think of myself as a Jew, but I suppose I am.”

“Why didn't you say so? Welcome to Israel!”