I need to go to the police to get my residency permit stamped into my new passport. They’re shut today but having got my passports out, old and new, I leaf through the pages. Each stamp brings back memories: Rome in March, walking the streets of Manhattan at 6 am, a bus crash outside Bangkok, times, dates, people, touching my palm against cool ancient marble or the grass in a famous park. And always the return to Bergen’s damp green mountains. Such a pity that stamps in passports have become so rare.
My favourite part of Megan Heyward’s I am a Singer (buy/borrow) is when you look at a page of the protagonist’s passport, going through her documents as she remembers who she is. Clicking on each stamp brings a different fragmented memory: lovemaking in Paris (of course), childhood in Sydney; I’ve forgotten the others.