Office D3

Day sixty-nine, Turkey. On the way to Istanbul.

At the border I stand in front of Office D3 with my papers in my hand, among Turks, two Germans, and travellers speaking languages I can't place. Everyone at the window waves a passport and hands their documents through to the official on the other side.

I had been badly afraid of Turkey. Our newspapers report very little good about this country. But for weeks now I have been choosing trust over the alternative, over and over, out loud in the car:

I trust life. I am held and I am safe.

Standing among the people with their passports, I decide to go all the way with it. People look at you strangely when you hold conversations with yourself. I mean this one.

Listen, God. This journey is too big for me. I can't control it and I can't tell you what comes next. You can. Take my life and live it through me.

I keep the conversation going and make myself feel what I am saying instead of only saying it.

Then it is my turn.

The man behind the counter wants me to drive the car and trailer through for inspection. That is all. Trailer open, trailer shut. A look in the boot. Done.

I get my papers back.

That was the thing I had been afraid of for nine hundred kilometres.