An alarm goes off and as soon as I open my eyes and look out of the carriage window I see hills and a forest and an Austrian village with houses and church. The white church and farm buildings look like wooden toys. For some reason I’m amazed to be waking up to this without having flown here.
My passport is with the Syrian Embassy. I have every faith and confidence it’ll be back in my hands by the time I’m standing at St Pancras station ready to board the Eurostar and track Damacus-wards. It is a worry though. I left it a bit late to apply.
But passports are only paper, a representation of a bigger system breathing away in the background – like money or blogs.