Keeping old passports is a lazy's way of keeping a diary. I see that in 1967 I was in Freiburg, Germany. At the time I was working for an English-language magazine owned by a German publisher, Herder Verlag. It was decided I should spend the summer with the parent company to pick up some German. I knew "achtung" and "Heil Hitler", but little else.
Through nobody's fault, Herder was under the impression I had come to perfect my German. I was billetted in a company school where the publisher trained apprentices in the art of bookselling. A house master kept me on his left-hand side at lunchtimes and spoke to me gravely in German. I hadn't the faintest idea what he was saying - and, moreover, I had no idea why he thought I should. "I'm sorry," I said, "I don't speak German".
The house master, for his part, decided I was being mulish, deliberately concealing the extent of my command of the language. He continued to address me in German. Lunch became an existentialist nightmare.
Student society
Speaking of which, the philosopher lived up a mountain near Freiburg. A student society at the university sought to have him speak to them. A delegation trekked up the mountain and knocked on his door. Frau Heidegger answered. The students made their request. Frau Heidegger replied that her husband could not come to the door because "mein Mann denkt."
Only a German would give as a reason for not answering a knock on the door the fact that "my husband is thinking."
Another passport shows I was in Hamburg in 1982. I remember the occasion. Aer Lingus had decided to introduce a direct service between Dublin and Hamburg and invited travel journalists on the inaugural flight.
The government was represented by Padraig Flynn, then junior minister at the Department of Transport and Power.
The mayor of Hamburg invited the Irish party to dinner in a traditional bierkeller. The starter was a large portion of Westphalian ham. The main course was an enormous Atlantic sole. Mr Flynn finished his and asked me if I thought he could have another. I called a waiter and, pointing to the Minister's empty plate, said "Mehr fisch?" (You see, I did pick up some German.)
Sex industry
Hamburg being Hamburg, it was felt that the hacks would expect some exposure to the sex industry. After all, you don't go to Blarney and not kiss the Blarney Stone. Aer Lingus was shrewd enough to realise that its Minister would not appreciate sharing his Hamburg experience with a bunch of Irish journalists, so we were dispatched to a pretty tepid - by Hamburg standards - porn show. I can truthfully say I remember nothing about it.
Padraig Flynn's experience was different. Aer Lingus had decided a former Mayo schoolteacher - who was accompanied by his wife - would not wish to have a raunchy night out. They consulted a local travel agent who was asked to advise on a mild Hamburg experience. What Aer Lingus did not know was that the travel agent had an impish sense of humour and directed the ministerial party to a nightclub where, I was given to understand, there was live sex in which a violin-cello was involved. I did not ask for elaboration but, the following morning, I thought Pee Flynn looked distinctly shook.
Though I was once in Israel, there is no stamp in the passport to indicate so. When the immigration official at Tel Aviv handed me back my passport unstamped, I asked him to stamp it as I would like it as a souvenir. "Do you intend travelling to other areas in the Middle East?" the official asked. "I suppose so," I replied. "Then you don't want an Israeli stamp on your passport". Ah.
Official rites
What I do have on one passport is a stapled note from the Redemptorist Fathers in Marianella, Dublin. It reads: "To whom it concerns. This is to certify that James Dunne has been baptised according to the official rites of the Roman Catholic Church."
This was a requirement of getting an visa to visit Iraq. The Iraqis were not particularly interested in whether or not I was a Catholic. But they were keenly interested in being assured that I wasn't a Jew. The Iraqi visa is dated 22/9/1980.
Coras Tractβla had invited me to attend a trade fair in Baghdad. It never happened - some trouble with the Kurds. I was never so glad a trip was cancelled.
Two passports entries puzzle me. I have an "entrada" stamp for Barajas Madrid airport for 24/3/1985 and a "salida" (departure) stamp for two days later. I am quite certain I was never in Madrid.