Finally, in Kabul.

Arriving in the airport waiting room (the size of a large living room) of the UN terminal, I look out at rows of men in turbans of many dark hues, with stunning bearded faces, all staring at me, not with hostility, but as if looking at a rare insect.

I figure these are all men with some exposure to the outside world, since they are at the UN terminal of an airport, and in addition, I can't look that strange, since I am wearing a Pakistani shalwar khameez, with tunic and baggy pants, and a large headscarf. And yet, I, an unacompanied woman lugging a computer and suitcase, obviously look like a Martian to them.

I meet my driver, and we head for my guesthouse, the Park Palace, an old house and extension with rooms with bath, sheltered from the street by a high wall and large metal gate and guardhouse, and bearing no sign or address from the outside that indicates foreigners might stay here. Inside are sandbags, and another guard post. The guests are a mix of aid workers, journalists, and odd travellers.

Yet despite all these precautions, Kabul seems amazingly relaxed to me, nothing like Baghdad with its sense that something awful could happen at any moment. The streets are full, although the city is incredibly poor and run down.