No reason to travel
No thanks, I’m fine right where I am. I’ve finished another great book by Paul Theroux, and it comes at the moment where the closest I’m likely to approach to the border of my country is, well, irrelevant. I’m not intending to travel any time soon.
To think that my neighbours (south of here) want my pedigree, biometrics and the right to check out my hard drive is breathtaking. All that attention so I can marvel over a factory outlet mall? Maybe not. Besides, now that we have eBay and Paypal, I don’t really need to go there. I just have to continue avoidance of the UPS racket and my xenophobia is secure.
Mr. Theroux has spent years on my preparation for international exploration. No matter what sector my finger touches when I spin the globe, he’s already been there, and he has lived to tell the tale. Oh, the tales. My latest virtual voyage has taken me from Cairo to the Cape, and I don’t need to see an elephant to know what big means. Africa is just too much of a Dark Star for me.
Couple that with the word that “the nation that would be secure” feels my laptop is fair game for a root through, and I’ve decided to leave my seven league boots in the back of the cupboard. I want my computer to see the world, and I don’t need to share my collection of Guardian clippings with anyone else. Virtual clippings, for those that care. Acrobat has changed my habits; I now packrat virtually. But little matter. The border is closed to me; too much hassle for the pleasures it might bring. Boston might be interesting, but other than that, I can YouTube the rest.
My fingerprints have already been taken (back when I wanted to be a spy, I needed Top Secret clearances). I have no idea where they ended up. Do I really want to know. Some secrets are best kept. So there; the border patrol isn’t getting my laptop or my digital patterns. That leaves my pedigree, and I as soon as I complete the work I’ll tell the world. No need to ask me. I’m a genealogist, and that’s what we do best.
