I do stupid things quite often, but I can usually think or talk my way out of any mess. Or at least get a good laugh out of it. This morning’s mess was one for the ages, which is why I’m skipping over an important part of my trip.
The morning I was scheduled to leave, I waited at the reception desk for the cab I’d requested the previous night. When he arrived, right on time I might add, I reached into my wallet to make sure I had my passport and I came up empty. I checked the other compartments in my backpack and...nothing. I started to panic.
At first, I couldn’t fathom where it could have been. Not in my room. Not in my luggage. I am anal about putting everything back where I got it, and I couldn’t imagine how it could have been anywhere other than where it normally lived.
Then, it dawned on me…
I left my dang passport at the bank! How did I manage that? Well, as I completed the new account paperwork, they had a whole procedure for visually confirming the signatures matched the way the name was signed in the passport. My passport was given to someone else, who took it somewhere else.
I was left with another employee, who escorted me to another area to meet with someone else. Eventually, hse was given my passport, and a clear envelope, which she put on her desk. She proceeded to give me a website tutorial, and my passport was long forgotten. When she finished, I left.
You know the saying out of sight, out of mind? That’s what happened. I even glanced at the desk before I left, and I didn’t notice it. Hidden underneath the plastic bag which once held my new debit card, my passport remained for the long weekend..
The next morning, a Monday, the bank wasn’t open. The cab driver took me to the American consulate, at my realtor’s instruction, where men holding large guns were guarding it. The driver jogged toward the men to explain, in Spanish, what I needed. The person in the guard outpost told me to pick up the phone which connected me to an American, and I explained what happened. Nothing she could do. The earliest I could get anything was Tuesday. She said I could go to the airport and maybe someone could help, but there were no guarantees.
I was mildly panicked.
I told the cab driver, “Please take me to the airport and I’ll figure it out.” Okay, I lied about being mildly panicked, I was petrified and flailing. Once we arrived, the cab driver parked, grabbed my luggage and rushed to the front of the ticket counter to explain to the woman what happened. She said I needed to call the airline.
I called the airline and I was connected to a Spanish-speaking person. She couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand her. With no one understanding each other, I had to resort to a tactic that worked once before when I lost my license the day before a flight. I went to security and explained.
I talked to three people who spoke English better than I spoke Spanish. I managed to make it through security, and waited at the gate for the gate agents. When they arrived, I introduced myself and before I could explain fully what happened, one woman said, “We heard about you.” They were very kind and explained that since my flight to Mexico City was domestic, I would be allowed to board. However, they couldn’t guarantee I would be allowed on the flight to New York. I figured all I could do was take it one leg at a time.
During my wait, I was talking to the real estate broker’s husband, my initial contact, and he said I shouldn’t go to Mexico City. He encouraged me to stay with them but I figured if I went to Mexico City and got stuck, at least I would be a little closer to New York.
Once I finally boarded the plane, I couldn’t sleep, and that’s a big deal for me because I am an excellent plane sleeper. I prayed the entire time. We landed less than an hour before my connecting flight—on the other side of the airport. As I booked it to the gate, I saw a help desk, and asked them what to do. Everyone’s expression spelled doom, but they told me to talk to the gate agent. As I waited in line at the gate, I told a white American woman what happened. She tried to reassure me all would be well. Easy for her to say.
I finally made it to the front of the line and explained my story for the hundredth time. The gate agent told me I had to go to the American consulate. I explained further, probably with more desperation in my voice, how I couldn't do anything until Tuesday. “Okay, go to Delta,” and he told me where, adding, “and you’re obviously going to miss this flight.”
I’m sure my face sunk, but it was my own dang fault. I just plopped down into a chair, mulling over my options. I don’t know what happened, but he called me over and said, “One momento,” he said. “We’re going to do everything we can to help.” A cell phone appeared and he was on the phone with someone else. I had my license, birth certificate, immigration papers, credit cards, social security card and other stuff to verify my identity. They took a picture of my license, and of me, and I was finally approved to board! I exhaled.
Two legs down and all that remained was Customs. I knew if I found a Black woman, I’d be okay. Sure enough, as I made my way toward the Customs line, I saw two Black women who worked at the airport. I told them not to laugh before launching into my story. One of them said, “Wait, you flew all the way here without your passport?” They were as shocked as me.
The women led me to a dirty room with several desks and people waiting around. They explained my situation to an agent there, who called me up to her desk. I felt like there was a harsh light shining down on me, like I was about to undergo an interrogation. I thought it would be hours before I could get home. Nope. She asked me for the address associated with my passport and my home address. I answered correctly and she said, “Welcome home.” Welcome home, indeed.
As I told a friend, I’ve never been so afraid in my life. Thankfully, it worked out in the end but I’m going to need a good, stiff drink tonight.
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