No Border in Ireland

There is no border in Ireland, no border patrols, no checkpoints, no uniforms, and I only realized the coach had crossed when the African guy beside me swivelled his head to gape at the ragged British flags that suddenly appeared on the lamp posts. The elusive Irish border has been the recycled fuse paper at the core of their fighting for ninety years, or nine hundred, and somebody should have noticed it had gone, but then I figured saying there was no border in Ireland was like saying there was no slavery in the United States.

The sugar dusted hills above Belfast were coming closer now, alive in the early morning sunshine, waiting for me. I fingered my new passport - Conor McAnespie, Éireannach/Irish. I thought it would be green but Artie said all European passports were purple. I had half expected to be rumbled at the first passport control in Rio airport but Artie had somehow managed to fix me up with the real thing. I passed through Amsterdam with no problem, then the guy in Dublin hardly looked at it. So, either Artie could pull strings at a higher level than I had thought or there were other players in this game, maybe at the level where they get to decide who is expendable - I already knew where I sat in that hierarchy.