And today you can get it in fifteen minutes.
– No problem, if you have your credit card, says the guy at the counter.
Just turn around, look into the device. Smack. A photo of my face. I look weird, but it will do.
After a week a text message arrives in my cell phone, it is time to pick up my passport. Big difference, compared to how it used to be back in the days before internet. Then it was a lot of hassle and queuing. First a certificate from the parish office, then a trip down to the photo booth at the central station, blurry, but ok. Then long queues at the police department’s passport office, followed by some weeks of waiting, for a letter from the authorities.
Still I never felt that a passport was that special. Just something that had to be arranged, and it was a huge gap between my attitude and how the manager at a hostel in Porto felt when I checked in one summer many years ago.
– Where is your passport?
– Oh.
I had put in my worn green sack from the military surplus store and locked it into a rickety box at the train station. Not a big deal, was it? But the hostel guy, a balding man in his thirties, was somehow pissed off on behalf of the Swedish state.
– Your passport? This document that gives you entry to all the countries in the world?
How could I leave it on a shady place as a Portuguese train station?
– So what, I can just pick up a new one from the embassy if I lose it, I said.
He thought I was totally irresponsible.
So I went down to the train station, fetched my passport and checked in.
The hostel was crowded but some guys from Angola had a spare bed in their room. The Angolans were relaxed. In the evening they were heading to a disco, but it was not my cup of tea. I just wanted to hit the streets of Porto.
– Check out the bars and harbor areas. See what happens.
– Cool, they said.
The Angolans liked me. The manager didn’t. Nor did a contact-seeking guy from Brazil, who also wanted to go to the disco.
– Sorry, not my thing, I said.
Garage rock and American blues was more up my lane. And I didn’t want to hang around cafés or do stuff with him either. The whole idea about travelling alone was to avoid compromises like that.
He became upset.
– What’s wrong, he said.
It was an egoist, a longhaired slacker with a taste for narrow cultural things. That was how it was. In Lisbon a triptych by Hieronymus Bosch on a mini museum and a concert at a basement club for experimental jazz had become memories for life. And I did not mind to stay at ridiculously cheap hotels, mostly habituated by prostitutes.
I guess hostels weren’t well really my thing either.
Then I was a little careless with the food and got stomachaches. I decided to leave with the next train northbound.
The Brazilian looked even angrier and started to shout about different things.
– CAN’T YOU HEAR? THE TRAIN TO PARIS LEAVES IN TWO HOURS!
A few who stayed at the hostel probably thought that I got what I deserved.
But it was a pretty nice feeling to check out my Swedish passports from the front desk and leave.
Thomas Drakenfors