Well, so there, propped on what is about to become my dining room window sill — I admit, it still requires a bit of imagination to see that — is my residence permit. Did I watch Casablanca too often? Did I grow up too close to people who lived in fear of la Migra? I don’t know, but it felt huge to get this.

Once I figured it out things were pretty straightforward, actually. Here in the countryside they are not so inundated with requests, so it is easy to get an appointment and all. A friendly young woman looked at my documentation, waited while I filled out the missing bits, disappeared for a minute and came back with my card. The permanent one, which should arrive in a couple of months, will, I hope be a little smaller.

So there I am with a hole punched in my head. It feels good.