New fase

"You can let go now, ma'am." The man from the town hall and I were tugging at my passport together. He needed it, nearly expired as it was, in order to sort out the new one. Rationally I understood the point, of course, but emotionally, oddly enough, I struggled with it. As if he wanted to take a part of me away, to remove a part of my history.

My passport, with so many stamps and visas. From so many far away destinations. All those memories from the past 10 years. The stamp from Dorasan train station in South Korea, for instance, just a few meters from the border with North Korea. You can only get there with a guide when you visit the DMZ (demilitarized zone). The rail connection with North Korea is there, the enormous station sits spick and span. It could all be put into use just like that, but it's completely deserted. For now, the station is a symbol of the hope for a reunification of the Koreas. Seldom have I felt so eerie anywhere.

I looked at the town hall man sheepishly. "It must feel like the end of an era?" he asked while leafing through my old passport. "You know," he went on, "you don't need stamps in a passport as proof of memories. You collect those in your heart. And there's no expiry date on that." Huh? I had to shift gears for a moment. What a philosophical remark. At a town hall counter of all places.

He studied the page with my details. "It's the age too," as he tapped on my date of birth. "I've got one like that sitting at home as well. Letting go isn't your strongest suit, is it?" Laughing and with a big wink, he handed me my new passport. "Here! This'll set you up nicely for the next 10 years." I walked off, baffled. Had I just been given homework here?!