“A passport, as I’m sure you know, is a document that one shows to government officials whenever one reaches a border between two countries, so that the official can learn who you are, where you were born, and how you look when photographed unflatteringly.”
― Lemony Snicket

My theme song is whatever the opposite of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore is,” as long as it doesn’t make me sound like a tart.

That photo is not even all of my passports, I’ve got another one filed away at my parents house. And, like unto my notary paperwork, I have to trudge them around with me for the rest of my life. (At least with my notarial stuff my heirs have to trudge it around for all of theirs as well before finally disposing of it.) Why, you ask? Because my passports literally contain my life – and I’m not just talking about sentimental value.

If you want to live a highly traveled life, expect to run smack into paperwork managed by highly precise bureaucracies who will want to know (with justification) why you want into their country and what other countries you’ve finagled your way into. I’ve lived in or traveled to well over 20 countries in my life, that’s a long list. And when you plan on moving to a country you have to be able to supply that whole list to the dour faced border guards who patrol the perimeters. I love my passports and all the stamps in them, I’ve been some seriously cool places and I plan on going to many more – but heavens they do make paperwork more complicated when reporting your life story!

And I find it a bit funny/ridiculous that between two people J. and I have seven passports when I know dozen of people who don’t have single one. My life has been incredibly packed full and fun, but looking at the stack of blue books reminds me that it hasn’t ever been normal. Good.