Politics, open government, and safe streets. And the constant incursion of cycling.

The First Passport

Went to Atlanta this weekend for a brief visit with my parents. While I was there, I came across my very first passport:

Not quite sure

I have to admit to some disappointment with it, though. We did an extraordinary amount of travel while it was valid, but it seems that I rarely received any interesting visa stamps. For example, I’d hoped that the interminable waits at the East German border had at least resulted in some nifty bits of Cold War officialness. What did I get? An unimpressive American stamp and some civic boosterism:

That's it?


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  1. Peej

    That’s awesome. I don’t have any of my passports until the ones from my teenage years, and I only have the British ones from then on. The rest were either thrown away or, in the case of Iran, handed back when the new one was issued, as required. Which is too bad, because my passport photo at 1 would have been a lot cuter to show off than the ones in the gawky, geeky teenage years.
    Re: stamps–I remember up until I was 12 or 13, as long as I was traveling with my parents, I rarely got stamped, even though I had my own passport. I think being young and all, the officers just didn’t bother with mine.

  2. April

    We adopted my youngest son from Russia when he was a baby (now looks a bit like you Mark, blonde and blue eyed). Even though the Soviet Union was long gone in 1998, his Red passport was printed on old C.C.C.P. stock. Didn’t want to waste paper I suppose.

    Incidentally, the Soviet interminable waits and Cold War officialness seem to have survived the fall of communism. Your post made me think that finding the document might bring a smile to his sweet face some day.

  3. MB

    I’m sure it will, April.


    Peej, that’s pretty much what happened to me, too. No more, though. During this last trip, I can’t tell you how many times I stood in immigration behind a family with six kids, each of whom had to get their passports and papers stamped . . .

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