The Promised Land

My colleague Barbara gave me the final push I needed for inspiration for this month's column. With the elections just around the corner, Barbara sent me a cartoon depicting an inextricable tangle of lines between political parties, showing who is willing to work with whom and who is not.

In a flight of fancy, I had previously embarked on a journey to the Promised Land. The Jewish people were already searching for it in the Bible, because God had promised it to Abraham. During my journey, I reached a five-way intersection. Google Maps let me down there. I looked ahead and saw a traffic controller standing at every road. I thought I'd ask, although I didn't have high expectations.

My experiences with traffic controllers are not good, as you can already tell. I explained to the first one that I was looking for the Promised Land and didn't know which way to go. He told me with conviction that the road he was standing on was the one I needed to take. With my suspicious nature, I decided to ask the next one anyway. I got the same answer. My suspicion grew. You guessed it, the third gave the same answer. I decided not to ask the remaining two and turned back. The promised land either exists five times over or it is an illusion, a mirage. Thousands of years after Abraham, the Jews have not found it.

So why do they keep searching?

On my way home, I stopped to charge up and satisfy my hunger. The only establishment available near the charging station was a burger joint. There were two people waiting behind the counter, but I had to enter my order on a large touchscreen. There, I could also pay immediately, take a number and sit down. That gave me the opportunity to look around and see who I was sitting with.

Three truck drivers, very corpulent, not immediately giving the impression that they had been freshly shaven and showered that morning, with Eastern European accents. Then there was a family with two primary school children, who spoke Spanish. A lost gentleman of my age who didn't understand how to pour cola with the deposit cup.

A little later, a group of young men came in, I guess of North African descent, dressed entirely in black and wearing hoodies. The lady who brought me my order was Asian in appearance, extremely friendly, but did not speak Dutch.

It was clear. My search was completely unnecessary. I was already in the promised land. I don't need to vote, because it's already done. The land of Abraham.