Zorg's House Hunting Chronicles

adjusts reading glasses and pulls out a crumpled world map

So, humans keep asking me: "Zorg, why Portugal?" Well, buckle up buttercups, because choosing where to live in your bizarre world is like navigating a dragon's maze... if the dragon was also a bureaucrat with severe trust issues.

FIRST STOP: The visa office. Apparently, I needed "documentation" to exist somewhere. In Eradiir, if you wanted to live somewhere, you just... lived there. Maybe fought a troll for the good spot by the river. Simple. Honest. No forms in triplicate.

But here? "What's your nationality, sir?" "Goblin." "Sir, that's not a country." "Have you BEEN to the Goblin Territories? Because I have a deed written in blood that says otherwise."

🇺🇸 USA: "You need a sponsor." Apparently, my resume of "Defeated the Lich King of Morthdoom" doesn't count as "relevant work experience." Also, they kept asking about my "criminal background." I mean, YES, I burned down that tax office, but it was CLEARLY an act of public service.

🇫🇷 France: Beautiful country, but they looked at my cheese collection and said it was "expired." EXPIRED?! Some of that cheese is aged to perfection! 200 years of careful cave-aging! But apparently there are "health codes" now. Barbarians.

🇩🇪 Germany: Very organised. TOO organized. They wanted me to fill out Form 4B-7 to request Form 3A-2 to apply for the right to think about maybe considering filling out the actual application. I had flashbacks to the Bureaucratic Labyrinth of Despair. At least that one had monsters you could fight.

🇯🇵 Japan: Loved the respect for tradition and craftsmanship. But they kept bowing, I kept bowing back, and before I knew it, we were stuck in an infinite politeness loop. I'm still dizzy.

Then I discovered something FASCINATING about your world: these invisible magical barriers you call "borders." Apparently, if you cross an imaginary line drawn by some long-dead human, you need PERMISSION. In my day, territory was marked by actual physical things: mountains, rivers, or "DO NOT ENTER OR THE DRAGON WILL EAT YOU" signs.

But you humans? You've created invisible walls more powerful than any fortress! You can't see them, but cross one without the right papers, and suddenly armed people appear asking uncomfortable questions. It's like the most passive-aggressive magic spell ever cast.

🇵🇹 Portugal: Finally! A place where:

• They looked at my age (347) and just shrugged

• The bureaucrat actually laughed when I explained I was a "displaced magical being seeking asylum from interdimensional chaos"

• They have something called "pastéis de nata" which are basically little golden cups of happiness

• The wine is older than some of my battles (and tastes better)

• Nobody questioned why I always carry a war hammer "for emotional support"

Plus, the Portuguese seem to understand that sometimes life just... happens to you. Very goblin philosophy.

So here I am, legally residing in Portugal (still can't believe I needed PERMISSION to exist somewhere), trying to figure out why humans invented countries in the first place. You're all the same species! It's like if goblins, orcs, and trolls all called themselves different names but were actually just... goblins with attitude problems.

Modern world: 1,847 invisible rules about where you can breathe air. Zorg's patience: declining rapidly. Portuguese pastries: keeping me sane.

grumpily yours from Lisbon, Zorg 🧌

P.S. - If anyone can explain why I needed three different stamps to prove I'm the same person who walked into the building five minutes earlier, I'm all ears. Pointed ears, but still.

Hashtags: #ZorgChronicles #VisaStruggles #BordersAreWeird #PortugalLife #BureaucracyIsDragonSlaying #InvisibleLines #ModernMigration #PastéisDeNata #ExistentialCrisis #Why347Forms