Chapter 6: The Stud gets a new passport ...

"I've been crying lately, thinking about the world as it is,

why must we go on hating? Why can't we live in bliss?"

It’s a funny story really. Well, it’s not too funny, considering that it was a bit of a hassle and cost to get a new passport, but if you catch me in Norwich or back in the States, ask me about how I ended up outside a club with no pants on and I’ll tell you why I had to get a new passport.

But, after all this, 7 days later, I’ve got a brand-spanking new, 10 year passport ready to rock. It feels new, it feels exiting, it feels like travel, and I can’t wait to break it in, though, unfortunately, its virgin use will be a flight home to England. Still, there are worse places to go to.

In the days preceding the collection of my new passport, I felt liberated to be without a passport or valuables, on my person or at all. People would ask, ‘how long are you in Barcelona for?’ and I would say, quite honestly, ‘no clue. I’ll know when to leave.’ But it was more than just not having a passport. My wallet was also stolen (though my cash was not). I would roam Barcelona’s streets without ID or credit cards. It felt great to not be watching my wallet all the time (Barcelona is the petty theft capital of the world) and it felt great to be without these ties to the material/real world while I was on holiday. When I would leave my flat to go anywhere, the only thing I would carry with me was maybe 5 euros (most often none) and my cigarettes. I did not take a key to the hostel with me, because I knew where to kick the bottom of the door to get in if it was locked. Soon, I stopped carrying my phone and I would refuse people my cell number when they’d ask. But then this got too much. It got to the point where I grew almost obsessive compulsive and simply could not tolerate carrying anything in my pockets. If I wanted a cigarette, I’d roll one for the road and take my lighter. If I wanted a slice of pizza from Lechuga (Best damn pizza in Barcelona), I would carry exactly two euros with me, nothing else. I was living and working completely off of the grid, making 30 euros here, 60 euros there, 0 there to keep me afloat, pay for food and to pay for my bed at my beloved shit hole of a hostel. I fell into a groove of European traveller subsistence and I forgot I was a student. But as soon as I got a notification from the consulate of my passport’s arrival, I said, “oh, right ... I’ve got to go back to school sometime ... shit.”

The arrival of a passport signified this re-realization of my role as student, and subsequently revealed to me that I was not a traveller. I had travelled a bit, sure, but I was just a stud-ent on his spring break. When my passport arrived at the consulate, the world was saying to me: “get the fuck back to school, that’s your job.” There was so much stuff I wanted to do this weekend with my friends, but I understood the message clear enough, and I’m flying back Friday night. However, in addition to retying me to the material/real world, putting me back on the grid, I find other significance to my passport. I think it marks a shift, a beginning, a new era. I came to Europe to travel, yes, but more to study travel. To find out what travel is, how it works and how it differs from tourism. In anticipation of this, I hinged an argument on authentic experience. I found authenticity in Barcelona and stopped moving and started travelling, albeit for only two weeks. With this new passport, I feel that it marks the death of Luke the tourist and the birth of Luke the traveller. Passport issue date: April 20, 2011.

As I look at my passport, one thing jumps out at me. The front cover, in a sea of navy blue, PASSPORT in written in bright gold capital letters. Below ‘Passport’ there is a big Gold crest with an eagle, and under it, proudly written, United States of America ... fucking America. The message is clear, I’m American. As I received a new passport, now enabled to return to England, back in the mix of society, I apparently needed first to identify myself as American.

The passport is something everyone needs to posses in order to travel internationally. It is a necessity. It is mandatory. But what does a passport really do? What is its purpose? What is the difference between a person that is not admitted entrance to a nation for not possessing a passport and someone that has one? Don't get me wrong, I'm buzzing to travel with my new passport, but why do I need one? As far as I can discern, the passport’s only function, as it appears to me as I look at it, is to say, loudly and candidly, “I’m American.” Or I’m from the EU, or Russia, or Canada etc. To state nationality. But why is this statement of nationality important? If you are a living breathing human, you are a citizen of some nation around the world, so why does stating where you were born suddenly reduce the risk of admittance to a nation? If I cross the border with a passport, it is called travel, but if I cross a border without one it is called illegal.

Nationalism becomes an increasingly prominent aspect of identity when travelling. “Where are you from?” “I’m an American.” “Oh, ok, from where?” “Philadelphia.” (The further east I go, the closer to Philadelphia I am from. When I was in Prague, I just New York left it there.) Finding out the nation of birth of someone is the first question asked of any traveller. It signifies your journey throughout your life. You get a starting point. If you’re in Barcelona and you meet someone from France and someone from Australia, you may be more intrigued with the journey from Australia to Barcelona than from France. However, what does this actually say? Are we really asking the details of one’s life journey when we say, “Where are you from?” Or do we want to know someone’s nationality to get an idea of what they are like, another starting point, but for how they think and what they are like.

Nationalism becomes the paramount mode of identification of the traveller, whether you are meeting someone for the first time, or showing your passport at check-in. But why? If you’re nationality is meant to define your life as a journey or who you are, then why don’t I answer, “where are you from?” as “I’m an American studying in England.” Or, “I started in Lisbon, trained to Madrid, chilled with my friend there, and then hitched to Barcelona a week ago.” If I’m giving information about my life and myself, which of the three gives you a better sense of my life’s journey? When I arrived in England last fall, I felt like I was from America. When I got to Prague, I felt like I was from England. When I arrived in Barcelona, I felt I was from Lisbon. ‘America’ is too loaded, gives too strong of an instant impression, paints a broad picture, but maybe that’s all we’re really asking when we say, “where are you from?” We don’t want a lifestory, just a starting point, and then we get to know someone. So, asking someone where they are from is not an insidious question, though it is hollow; but, if all we’re asking for is a starting point, why does it always have to be where we’re from? And why a permanent characteristic? It can be anything, permanent or otherwise. “Hey, I’m Luke. I’ve been listening to Cat Stevens a lot lately.” The statement, “I’m from Philadelphia,” implies that I’m in love with Pennsylvania and America, when in fact the opposite of those statements are closer to what I honestly believe. If someone is a very patriotic American from Philadelphia, chances are we may not really get along. If someone also listens to Cat Stevens, then let’s roll that joint right now.

This is why nationalism is just a bunch of bullshit. If you define yourself by whatever straggly patch of earth that you come from, you’re a reductive-thinking moron. If you think a nation can define a person, let me ask you this: What defines a nation? A border? A language? A government? Think of nations with border crises; or, think of the United States’ original borders before we realized our ‘manifest destiny’ of stealing Native American’s land. Language? The Swiss comfortably share four. Government? Don’t get me started on that one. Any nation that elected George W. Bush ... TWICE does not represent me. If you identify yourself by where you’re from, then you can only ever hope to be an infinitesimal fraction of a national stereotype.

As I’ve met people from all around the world, I receive varying senses of patriotism and generally, I find that I don’t really like people that are patriotic. “What’s the point? Why do you feel so attached?” Are the initial questions, but then “Does being from x define everything you do?” “Is thinking that way a requirement of citizenship?” are the follow-up questions. Then “Ok, give it a rest, it doesn’t mean anything” is my conclusion. As I recently capped my last blog with a rant of religion, I find nationalism to be a similar drug. (Dropping FS 102 knowledge here) Cultural scholar Benedict Anderson argues that all nations are merely “imagined communities,” his point being that one will never come close to knowing even a fraction of people in your nation, but we just feel the “imagined” connection of a nation, a loose, problematic construction at best. We ‘buy into,’ we ‘imagine’ a nation for various reasons: comfort, security, belonging ... and to kill people, of course.

If you dissect the ideas of nationalism and patriotism (the latter, nationalism combined with idiocy) then you know whatever “imagined” connection you have with someone is meaningless as it is imagined. We all buy into a nation, and generally agree that nationality is the best way to define someone, but why? It saves time I guess. It helps promote stereotypes, another positive impact. It gives people something to believe in ... and, like religion, it gives people a reason to kill other people and that’s something that all humans need, so ... another positive function. We buy into nationalism (and I’m not talking about a government) like we buy into religion. Deep in ourselves, it fills in a hole, covers a wound.

If you have been a diligent reader of the blog, you will have easily deciphered by now that I hate America and love England. Here is where an Englishman claps me on the back and buys me a pint, and where an American jumps in, distressed and angry and starts spewing endless shit from their mouths about ‘England did this, England did that. This is worse, so is then that ...’ “Oh, shut up,” I groan apathetically. I do not love England because it is a “better” nation than America or anywhere else, but I love England because I hate religion and patriotism and England does not contain much of either. Ask an American Christian how much they love America, start reading War and Peace and you’ll finish it before they shut their lazy, ignorant, most likely obese, faces. Ask an Englishman the same question and they say: “S’alright. Mustn’t grumble.”

I find compelling the contrast of Madrid to Barcelona. The two cities are nothing alike (Madrid a clean, model-city, Barcelona a gritty awesome city), speak two different languages(Spanish and Catalan respectively), and are in the same nation. During my 2 weeks spent here, Real Madrid has played Barcelona FC 4 times. It has been unreal. As I work in the office, flyering on La Rambla, each time Barcelona score a goal, I hear an eruption of voices from every direction. After the match(es), I see hundreds of supporters flowing out onto the streets. Most are wearing the dark red and blue of Barcelona and sporting gigantic grins whenever they are not shouting and singing, but I also see a fair share of disappointed Real Madrid fans (well, last night. The week before, after winning El Copa del Rey, they were the ones going nuts). As I often argue that football presents a better insight into culture than politics, I find these two weeks of amazing football to be very telling. Barcelona and Real Madrid are two of the biggest clubs in the world. They are both (and all Liverpool and England biases aside) unqualified giants of the biggest thing in the world, commonly known as football. I’m a Liverpool fan which, at this current time, is perhaps not as exciting as being a Barcelona fan, but it is an unchangeable loyalty that defines me as supporting Real and Barca define the crazed hooligans I see on the street each night. I think you can tell what argument I am making, and I know your argument back, and maybe you are right. Maybe it’s meaningless to let anything define you, but my problem with that is that’s not really how things work. If people need a starting point, I would prefer it is something about you that you really care about (it could be nationality, but shouldn’t be, even though it always is). A choice you have thought about and made, or something you’ve earned, not an arbitrary fact of life that you were born with. (Think of how the place you were born changes as you travel: Carlisle, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, New York, America). I guess all I’m really saying is I'm tired of all the hollowness to nationalism, and I despise patriotism in the same manner as religion. I wish we were all just people, you know? I know, I know, I’m a dreamer ... but I’m not the only one ... LW