Last week, in a tram in Cologne, I was offered a seat by a very friendly young chap. His German was nonexistent, as was his English, he came from Morocco, he told me in broken French. He has been in Germany for a month and is hoping to find work. No, he has no profession and he may move to Spain in a few months time, he said and if that does not work out, he will go back home. For the time being, he is staying at the local refugee camp.
Friends had told him that Europe was so beautiful, but it’s so cold in Germany and Morocco is very beautiful too, he proudly said. His parents, he told me in answer to my question, want him to come back home.
I later remembered how when I was his age, I also travelled in Europe, I stayed in large dormitories, perhaps like the camp the young Moroccan was put up in, they were called youth hostels but I had to buy my own food and was not given any pocket money by the countries I visited.