First stop was a checkpoint where we had to lug all our things off the press bus so a bomb-sniffing dog could inspect the vehicle. In the United States, the Secret Service dogs are almost always German shepherds. So I was amused to see that the dog on guard at RAF Halton was a cute little spaniel of some sort. He was probably a fancy English hunting dog with a genetically superior sense of smell, but he looked like he wanted to play fetch.

While he sniffed away, we were told to get in line. I figured we’d do the usual-put our bags through an X-ray machine and either go through a metal detector ourselves or get “magged” with a portable magnetic wand. But the military tents awaiting us at the front of the line were not so equipped. This was going to be a pat down.

I’ve gotten used to people rifling through my belongings. Before we board Air Force One, Secret Service agents have to “sweep” our bags. They hand check our carry-on luggage. Then they’ll bring in the dogs. But I have never had anyone rifle me.

She started at my ankles and started working her way up inch by inch. She asked me to take off my suit jacket and show her the soles of my shoes. Let’s just say that the “personal check” got personal. She couldn’t have been more polite, letting me know what part of my anatomy she would be touching next. “We’re not used to this in the States,” I told her, trying to break the tension. “I’ll bet,” she said.

But the women in the press corps got off easy compared to the men. “This will be a bit intrusive in the groin area,” the military police told a male colleague. Others were told to let them know if they felt “uncomfortable at any point.” One reporter, who is 6 foot 7, had to bend down so that the soldier could run his hands through his hair. All we could do was laugh it off.

And that was only England. Once we got to Italy there was nothing to laugh about. For the first time, that I’d ever seen at least, a military helicopter shadowed Air Force One as it approached the Genoa airport. We’d all heard about the extreme security preparations for the G8 summit, that missiles had even been readied off shore in case of a terrorist attack.

But the violence came from within the city. When protestors couldn’t breach the barricade that surrounded the Red Zone-the heavily protected area within which the summit took place-they sometimes turned on journalists. Some Italian reporters had taken to wearing fluorescent green vests that read: Giornalista (journalist). Many soon realized that put them at more risk, not less.

The news that a cornered and besieged policeman had shot a protestor in the head left even one former war photographer in the press corps shocked. Shortly after we heard of his death back in the Red Zone, a bomb threat evacuated the International Press Filing Center, where thousands of reporters gathered in tents to cover the summit.

But what brought the danger right home to me was just looking out my hotel window. While many leaders were staying on cruise ships docked in the Genoa port, President Bush was staying at a hotel on the marina, and so was I. Below my window, tethered to the dock, were two high-speed getaway boats with something bulky under tarps. They were guarded 24/7. And though I never saw them, I was told that Navy Seals were actually in the water around the hotel.

The violence of the protests never made it into the Red Zone. But the specter of violence seemed to follow us everywhere in Europe. After the president of the United States, the pope is probably the most protected man on earth. The Popemobile-the bulletproof golf cart John Paul II rides in at large public events-remained in the garage during Bush’s chat with him a few days later in Rome, however.

Last on the tour was a visit to Camp Bondsteel in Kosovo, where Bush met with

American peacekeeping troops. “Please remain on paved surfaces at all times to avoid undetonated land minds in grass,” our schedule books warned us. We rode over from Rome in a C-17, a cavernous military plane that usually transfers soldiers. The plane can land on a dime-or a tight runway in this case.

From the capital, Pristina, we hitched a ride on a CH-47, a dual-rotor helicopter that read KFOR (for Kosovo Force) in large white letters on the side. Two soldiers stood at the side windows manning mounted machine guns. One of the soldiers took his hand off his gun only briefly to point to the bombed-out village we were buzzing over. On his chopper, we later learned, Bush and his entourage wore flak jackets. And the soldiers who turned out for Bush’s speech came with their M-16s, which they must keep with them at all times.

I felt thankful when we landed at Andrews Air Force Base early Wednesday morning. Outside military bases like Andrews or Bondsteel, I never see an average policeman carrying an automatic weapon, and I don’t have to pass through elaborate security checks in my everyday life. And, of course, I was very glad that there would be no more “personal checks” for awhile.