The First Rule of International Travel: Do not, under any circumstances, allow your Passport to the custody of anyone else.
Well, obviously you have to hand it over to various officals whose job it is to inspect the things, but aside from that, no, no, and no. The story so far: On Thursday night, at dinner, Carisa suggested that we photocopy our passports; in case of emergency-that is, a lost Passport-it should make at least some difference as the Embassy irons things out. You know, with all that technology, the State Department needs that kind of basic help in order to help you. It almost makes sense if taken with a stiff shot of sarcasm.
You can almost tell where this story goes, already, right?
Mom stayed with her sister Thursday night. "Sue has a photocopier," she said. There's a bit more to it than that, but this is the vital point. It seemed logical.
Friday morning dawns, and shortly before setting up to rally with Drew and Carisa, I called Mom, feeling almost foolish. I am the one who forgets obvious things, like, oh, say, a Passport. "Just making sure we've got all the Passports," I said. Of course she did. "Sorry. Guess I'm just being paranoid."
Sue drove us to the airport from Drew's. Along the way, I asked for my Passport. I'm superstitious in certain ways. Everyone is. Superstition is one of those things in life, you know, those things, wink-wink, nudge-nudge-that everybody does, and if they say they don't, they're lying. “It’s in the back,” she told me. But I did get the photocopy. In truth, at this writing, I have no idea where that went. Never mind.
See it? See it coming? Of course you do.
The look on Mom’s face when she discovered my Passport missing-resting comfortably, as she soon recalled, on the copier glass-was something I hadn’t seen for about twenty years. It was the same anguished expression and tone of voice I remember when I wrecked the hell out of her car.
Things fall apart. Life goes on, for the living. And, since nobody was dead ... right?
Frantic phone calls all around until we caught up with Jim, one of my cousins, who immediately agreed to see what he could find at his mother’s. And, surely enough, there it was. He made a valiant effort to get the Passport to me in time for the flight, but the fates of traffic were against him from the outset. Hope for the sake of hope, certainly, but always be realistic. Disappointment hurts less on some occasions when you don’t bite your nails or gnash your teeth in hope of a last-second miracle.
Many thanks to Jim, though. It certainly beat taking a cab back to Edmonds.
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