Reflecting on Losing it all in Barcelona from my last post, I figured it would make sense to stick with the theme of losing items.
For those of you who’ve read it, you might recall I was left with nothing more than my cell phone, wallet and passport. Now I’ve lost plenty of wallets and smashed a few phones, both easily replaceable items, but losing my passport would mean a lot.
Paying to replacing one would be annoying, but the sentimental value alone is priceless … That is until you lose it. Then you’re out $170. Factor in the price of expediting it, you’re looking at a little more than $300.
Suffice to say, I found myself out a few bucks. As is the case most of the time you lose things, you cannot recall how or when they went missing. I know the last time I saw my passport—I handed it to the customs officer when re-entering the U.S.
I have a suspicion of where I made my mistake. I flew home during Christmas to surprise my parents with the help of my sister. She picked me up at SFO so we could then drive the hour or so home. My parents had no idea—heavy emphasis on no idea. Check out this video and you’ll see (uh, sorry in advance about my mom’s language):
I was coming home after living a year-and-a-half in London for. Upon returning, I had one thing on my mind: Hitting up a taco truck.
About 15 minutes from home, we pulled off the freeway and stopped at the first roach coach we saw. I couldn’t contain myself. I jumped out the car and flung my jacket over my shoulders. Winter in California tends to relatively warm, so I’m not entirely sure why I grabbed my jacket. Habit maybe? What I do know—or at least think I know—is this was when my passport went missing.
Somewhere in the midst of all the excitement, my passport must have flung out. Obviously I didn’t know this at the time, or else I wouldn’t be writing this …
A few hours later, after all the excitement from my surprise died down and everything felt like home again, I realized I misplaced my passport. I checked my pockets; I checked my bags; I checked under my bed; I checked my pockets again and again, but for the life of me I could not find my passport.
A search party consisting of my parents, sister and niece and nephew set out for the taco truck. Finding it would be a shot in the dark. Literally. The taco truck was gone and the area was pitch black.
No luck. A few calls to the airport and still no luck. A few weeks passed and I hoped somebody would find it and send it to my address. Still, no luck.
My passport is out there somewhere, along with pages and pages of visas, stamps and stories. I’m left with memories from my old passport and blank pages of my new passport, ready to start over.