#18 Skyscrapers or Vegetable Gardens?

From next to the rectangular, polished block of stone on which I am sitting, Boris the terrier—smaller than a soccer ball—dashes across the square in front of me toward the exit of the skyscraper that houses the Dutch embassy in Madrid. Heidi, my wife, who leaves the skyscraper too soon after entering it, laughs when Boris leaps up at her, which relaxes me. Man, compared to the ease with which we renewed our passports in Berlin ten years ago—we lived in Germany back then—renewing a passport for a Dutch person living abroad has become quite an operation. And I don't believe that renewing a passport is such an operation only in Spain, because when I renewed my passport in Madrid in 2007—not in a skyscraper but in a single-story, villa-like building—there was no procedure to speak of.

Heidi and Boris walk up to me, and Heidi says, "They won’t let me go up until five past eleven. But you can pick up your passport now."

"Huh...?"

"Just go ..."

Minutes later, I'm zooming up to the thirty-sixth floor of the skyscraper, holding a plastic access card. Soon after reaching that thirty-sixth floor, I'm staring at my new passport, which, according to the embassy employee on the other side of the glass pane in front of me, I have to check for possible errors. I eh... I don't check anything. I want to leave the skyscraper with my treasure, want to get back into the sunlight, and chuckle inwardly when I think about how, some weeks ago, I waited in this same room for over an hour for my turn to hand in the documents necessary to renew my passport. A resigned mood dominated the room. Three or four of the eight people waiting were waiting for the second or third time for their turn because something had been wrong or missing in their application during earlier visits. Next to me, on one of the chairs for those waiting, a woman sneezed incessantly.

"Hay fever," she apologized. For a moment, I wondered how someone could suffer from hay fever on the thirty-sixth floor of a skyscraper, but then I kindly asked, "Why don't you wear a face mask?"

The people around me looked up as one. One of them, a young man with a pleasantly cheeky look in his eyes, grinned.

"A face mask?" the woman responded after another sneeze.

I winked at the young man with the pleasantly cheeky, now anticipatory look and said, "Face masks stop viruses. Only people who deny science think otherwise. Viruses are smaller than the pollen that causes your hay fever, so if you wear a face mask, your hay fever will be a thing of the past."

The indignation among the people around me—minus one—was palpable. I couldn't laugh at that indignation because my heart was in my throat. But I had underestimated Heidi's diligence. She had spent hours figuring out which documents I needed and how to fill them out. She had also found a photographer in Málaga, relatively close to Antequera—where we still lived until four o'clock this morning—who guarantees passport photos that meet the requirements of the Dutch embassy. Once it was my turn, unlike the people who went before me, my application was processed in only a few minutes.

Two weeks ago, I received an email informing me that my new passport was ready to be picked up at the embassy on certain working days from half past one in the afternoon. After receiving that email, Heidi dared to submit her passport renewal application, and she managed to make an appointment at the embassy for today, July 31, 2025. I took the opportunity to pick up my new passport, assumed we would have to wait until half past one, and now hurry to the elevator with my treasure.

With a feeling of joy that I realize is ridiculous—renewing a passport should be a straightforward matter—I zoom back to earth. Boris dashes toward me as I leave the skyscraper. I smile when he leaps up at me—hoping that relaxes Heidi—and together with Boris, I walk up to Heidi, who is sitting on a rectangular, polished block of stone.

"Did you get it?" she asks.

"Yes," I reply cheerfully, holding up my new passport.

"It's eleven o'clock," says Heidi. "I'll try again," and resignedly—she's afraid the photographer in Málaga made a mistake when taking her passport photos—she gets up. Boris trots along with her to the entrance of the skyscraper. I know Heidi tells Boris to look for me, and I see him looking around uncertainly before dashing back to me as I sit down on the rectangular, polished block of stone Heidi just vacated. Through the glass façade of the skyscraper, I see Heidi placing her folder with documents on the conveyor belt of a scanner and saying something to one of the three armed security guards she has to pass before she can report to a desk to receive her plastic access card to the elevator.

Boris jumps onto my lap just as I realize this is probably the last time Heidi and I will be renewing our passports. Before the next ten years are up, a digital passport will have been introduced in Europe. I warned about that years ago and was laughed at. Nevertheless, the United Kingdom is now working hard to introduce the BritCard, a friendly name for a digital passport—which is definitely not friendly—and I try to remember who once said that you can convince fifty smart people with one fact, but fifty facts are usually not enough to convince one not-so-smart person. Mark Twain? I move Boris forward a little on my lap, take Heidi's phone out of the pouch I carry in front of my belly, do some tapping on the screen, and read: By introducing a mandatory, universal, national identity credential—BritCard—the Labour Government has the opportunity to build a new piece of civic infrastructure, something that would become a familiar feature of daily life for everyone in the country. It would support better enforcement of migration rules, and protect vulnerable British citizens from being wrongly denied their rights.

Great! The Brits will surely be happy having to use their passport every day instead of just when they travel. No Brit will object to finally being protected against being wrongfully denied her or his rights, and a quote I am sure is from Twain comes to mind: If you feel you are on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.

Digital passports don’t need to be renewed. That's great, I fear the majority of people on mainland Europe will think when digital passports are introduced there in the near future. I eh ... I think I'd rather have my heart in my throat once every ten years when I submit my passport renewal application than ten times a day, uncertain whether my digital passport allows me to go out into the street, allows me to buy the meat I need to stay healthy, allows me to ... "Ho, ho, ho," I call out to myself in my mind. I was cheerful, dammit! Without waking Boris, I put Heidi's phone back in the pouch and think about how, in 2007, on leave from Afghanistan, I rode my Yamaha XT into Madrid to renew my passport.

The night before, I had slept south of the city of Soria on a riverbank in an un-Spanish wooded area. Early birds woke me. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, bathed in the river, took what I needed to make coffee from the cases on the XT, enjoyed my coffee and solitude, and continued my journey to the Dutch embassy in Madrid—I was still officially residing in Spain—where I arrived just after one o'clock in the afternoon. I had no appointment, carried no documents, didn't have to pass scanners or security guards, and a friendly employee, who didn't hide behind a glass pane, referred me to a photographer for passport photos. I decided to walk the ten minutes to that photographer. Back at the embassy, the formalities were completed in a few minutes, and the employee who helped me promised that within a few days, my new passport would be sent to the barracks near the village of Schaarsbergen, in the Netherlands—where I was officially stationed and where my trip on the XT had started.

Still, my heart was in my throat in Madrid back then. The sensation faded when I realized I hadn't lost the keys to my XT, but had left them on the counter at the photographer's.

At leisure, I spent the remaining weeks of my leave touring narrow back roads through the Pyrenees, to and through the French Alps, and from there, east to west across France, to Étretat in Normandy, where I had decided to settle after my final return from Afghanistan. Man, that trip had been a relaxing one. I missed Afghanistan, sure, but I knew I would be back there soon enough. Every evening, on a riverbank, I prepared a meal on my fuel stove, rolled out my sleeping bag, and read a book or wrote in my diary by the light of a campfire and the Petzl on my head. Early birds woke me. I bathed in the river and lit the fuel stove to boil water for coffee. Glorious!

The Dutch armed forces had suggested that if I ever got tired of Afghanistan, I should take a short course to be promoted to major. I did not have a permanent contract with the armed forces before I left for Afghanistan, and the terms on which they offered me a permanent contract during my long stay in Afghanistan were attractive. I would give up my Spanish residency but did not want to settle in the Netherlands. Étretat—after studying the map—had seemed like a good alternative. To convince myself it really was, I toured there on my XT, and ... Boris jumps off my lap and dashes toward the exit of the skyscraper. Heidi laughs when Boris leaps up at her.

Heidi and Boris walk toward me, and Heidi says, "I think I did it. I'll get an email when my new passport is ready to be picked up," to which I ask how long she's been inside.

"It's half past twelve," Heidi replies. "An hour and a half," and I'm shocked when I realize I've been sitting on a rectangular, polished block of stone on my XT for an hour and a half.

"Something wrong?" Heidi asks.

"Nothing," I answer truthfully. "I've been touring to Étretat."

"Hm..."

The small clock in the dashboard of our Berlingo reads 13:07 as we leave Madrid behind us. We drive westward, not back south to Antequera. The Berlingo steers uncomfortably lightly. Logically so, for we’re transporting all our earthly possessions in its cargo hold. Without making haste, we drive through the Sierra de Guadarrama. Boris is sleeping on his pillow between our seats, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that Heidi is struggling to stay awake. Logically so as well, for we left Antequera at four o'clock this morning after a few chaotic days in which we tied up some last issues there, loaded the Berlingo, gave furniture, tables, chairs, and whatnot to neighbors, and slept little.

It is a sunny day. The landscape we travel through is beautiful, and for coffee, we stop at ventas, where it feels as if time has stood still for decades. Whenever Boris is awake while we’re driving, he sits up on his pillow and looks at Heidi, then at me, a question mark on his snout. The little animal senses our tension ...

A year ago, after living in Catalonia for a year, where life was not what we’d expected, we arrived in Antequera, in Andalusia. We’d been looking forward to Andalusia and didn’t lack plans. But then we discovered that life in Andalusia was not what we expected either, and now we’re on our way to Montelobado, a village in a nature reserve called Arribes del Duero, due west of Salamanca on the Portuguese border—Madrid only a minor detour. Writing and filming is what we want to be doing in Montelobado. Writing and filming, building a life—at long last—and laughing every now and then. No other illusions than just that.

Montelobado! A village in the most depopulated region of Spain. In Montelobado, we will succeed in building a life. We visited the village, about three months ago. The weather was bad that day, but Montelobado and its surroundings made quite an impression on us, and ... Heidi gestures me to take an exit. Not much later, we stop in front of a Leclerc supermarket on the outskirts of Salamanca. Heidi does some shopping while I take a walk with Boris, who, as we continue westward, senses the tension rising and at intervals, softly whines.

The landscape we now travel through is a cross between African savannahs and the Dutch Veluwe—a beautiful forest that is. For the last twenty minutes, Boris has been hanging out of Heidi's window, his hair blowing in the wind, barking at grazing cattle, sheep, and goats. Montelobado! It doesn't disappoint when we drive in. To the left and right of the road, people are busy tending their vegetable gardens in rustic walled plots called huertos, and in a square at the center of the village, a man gets up from the edge of the basin around a water source on which he is sitting. That must be Luis, from whom we’ll be renting a house—a house we haven't even seen a picture of. Luis gestures us to stop and walks to my open window.

"Cansado tired?" he asks, shaking our hands through my window.

"Cansado," I reply tiredly.

Luis points at a cozy-looking house on the side of a small yard. We drive into the yard and get out. While Boris dashes around us, Luis gives Heidi a key. Heidi gives Luis the rent money she withdrew at an ATM in Salamanca.

"Cualquier cosa whatever it is, llamame call me," Luis says before turning and walking to the café across the square. "We'll chat one day when you're rested."

I hold my breath as Heidi enters our new home, Boris at her heels. Only when she comes back out and I see her eyes sparkling do I exhale. Heidi is happy—the house must be a nice house! Man, that's a relief, and I chuckle inwardly as Twain whispers in my ear: Never part with your illusions. When they're gone, you may still exist, but you've ceased to live.

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