Today marks the successful maiden voyage of my brand-new Egyptian passport, a document I never dreamed I'd need as the lucky owner of a blue U.S. passport, that all-access pass to most of the world.
Syria, however, is not like most of the world. It might be the only place on earth where it's handier to have an Egyptian passport than an American one because the Syrians don't require visas for fellow Arabs. (Hooray for the vestiges of Arab nationalism!)

Even a year ago, I could enter Syria relatively easily on a U.S. passport, plus my Egyptian ID card. The passport control guys would take a look at my name, search my face to make sure I look the part, and stamp the entry card. At most, they snickered at my childish Arabic handwriting.

However, the influx of Iraqis and the intense security threats in the region have forced the Syrians to narrow the definition of just who gets some Arab brotherly love.

Obviously, Iraqis are facing a lot of scrutiny and a much harder time getting into the country now. Some Palestinians and Lebanese also say they've been hassled at the borders recently. And then there's those pesky hyphenated Arabs -- to admit or not to admit? The Syrians have decided to admit us without visas, but only if we travel on Arab passports.

All of which leads me to how I came to possess a slim, forest-green passport issued by the Arab Republic of Egypt. The eagle of the republic is on the front and tiny lime-green Sphinx heads dot the inside, apparently to foil counterfeiters. I still felt like I was doing something illegal.

At the Cairo airport today, I approached passport control with dread. The officer looked at my ticket and my spotless passport and asked if this was the first time I had left Egypt for Syria. I told him no, that I had visited several times before.
"Ah, so you must have an American passport," he said with a laugh.
Yes, I replied.
"We've been getting a lot of people like you these days!"

On the short Cairo-Damascus flight, I felt like an impostor as I flipped through the Egyptian passport to check the number for a landing card; I know the U.S. number by heart. The passenger to my left turned out to be a Lebanese-American from Texas who is based in Cairo and travels frequently throughout the region. He was in the same boat when it came to Syria, he said, and was bailed out by his maroon Lebanese passport.

The plane touched down just after 8 p.m., and it was time for the big test.
We disembarked and suddenly I found myself in the seemingly endless line in the passport control lane marked, "Syrians and Arabs." Typically, I would be in the line marked, "Foreigners," where not a single soul waited tonight.

Finally, I got to the officer. Things were going OK until he started asking about my profession, whether I had used another passport to enter Syria before, etc. He'd seen my name in the system and the details didn't match. At one point, he asked me if I was really an Italian radio reporter.

He asked me if I had the U.S. passport with me. I said I might have it somewhere, knowing it was deep in the bottom of my carry-on bag in case of a shortage of Arab brotherly love.
"Let's see it," he said.

I fished it out and he took both my passports and turned them over to a senior officer. My Egyptian colleague Miret (who has no dual citizenship and, therefore, no problem getting into Syria) waited with me. I could hear exasperated sighs and feel the poison-dart looks from the passengers standing behind me. We stepped aside.

After a few minutes, Miret spotted a man in an olive-colored uniform who came to the passport control area holding both my travel documents. He kept looking at the photos and scanning the crowd. I tried to push my way to him, but didn't make it before he bellowed out my name in front of everyone. Great. Now we looked like drug mules caught with cocaine in front of all the nice, harmless travelers.
Despite his gruff tone, the officer had good news. He told me to go ahead and even walked with us so we could cut and not have to stand in line again.
"Just use the Egyptian one," he cautioned, motioning for me to put away the blue U.S. passport.

I handed the green passport to the same officer as before. He asked the usual questions: Where was I staying? Was I in Syria on work or tourism? And then came the info on my employer, obviously an American newspaper company.
"Your office is in Cairo, right?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.
Trying to be ethical, I mumbled something about the bureau being in Cairo, but the main office being in the United...
"But your office is in Cairo, right? I don't think we need to put 'American' on anything, do you?" the officer asked with a conspiratorial look.
"No, sir," I told him. "My office is in Cairo."
The stamp came down with a thud: "admitted."
"Welcome to Syria," the officer said. "Sorry about the delay."