I Lost My Passport

I lost my passport.  My mother is shaking her head right now, I am sure.  My father is grumbling, “How can she be so irresponsible?  Everything has a place!  Why doesn’t she realize this?”  My sister is giggling because she didn’t believe me when I found it.  My brother has no thoughts about this.  It would be hypocritical for him to form any sort of opinion in this situation.  Let me explain…

A week ago yesterday I received an email from my new principal in all caps stating that after several days of power outages, then a lack of water to the building, and maybe even an attack by rabid tree kangaroos, my work permit had finally been approved by the Department of Immigration in New Guinea.  It was no longer just in principle, it was official – how it took a month to go from being approved to being officially approved, I will never understand, but, as I have since learned, this is the status quo for the nation of Papua New Guinea. 

The following morning I hopped in my ever crumbling navy blue Sunfire and headed for Embassy Row in Washington D.C.  Little did I know, this would be my first of manytrips.  As I posted previously I had a time at the Embassy despite being confident that everything was in order.  It took until this past Tuesday to receive my new police report stating that I was [still] not a felon.  My paperwork arrived in the mail at noon.  I promptly jumped back into that puttering Sunfire and drove the nearly 70 miles back to Embassy Row.  I arrived at 2:30 p.m. to learn from the not-so-nimble and very-much-so over weight security guard in the building that houses the few offices of which Papua New Guinea Embassy to the Americas is comprised of that the visa service hours are from 9:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m.  I silently scream obscenities in my own mind while plastering a smile on my face and politely pleading with her to call and ask if I can at least speak to someone.  She convinces the gentleman in the office to speak with me.  He brought down a form I needed to fill out and informed me that he would personally deliver it to the visa office.  He also said if I needed any help the next day to let him know.  This was all especially kind and seemed very helpful (at the time).  This gentleman was nowhere to be seen the next three times I trekked to the embassy and therefore of no real help.  I returned to my dented vehicle feeling relieved and very confident that my visa would be processed in a timely fashion and I’d have it in my passport the next morning.  I was wrong - very wrong.

As I got into my car, hoping it would be one of the last times I would have to drive in a vehicle with a radio that sometimes works, I realized I didn’t see my passport in my portfolio.  My navy blue portfolio that has spent the last ten months living in my navy blue Sunfire with me.  This portfolio has ridden the greyhound to New York City (three times), it has traveled to and from Florida, it has even driven cross-country.  All the while it was home to every piece of paper related to job applications, work permit applications, visa applications.  It is home to every receipt related to this move (the only receipts I have ever kept in my entire life).  It is also where I have kept my passport for the last four months.  I did not freak out until I returned to my parents’ house where I was sure it was.  It was not. 

I unpacked and repacked every item that I planned to bring with me across the Pacific.  I cleaned out my crummy car better than I ever had.  I tore through the house (only slowing at doorways where my parents could be witness to my frenzy as to not cause them concern – or maybe to save myself a lecture on organization) only to remain passportless.  I was not moving to New Guinea.  You can’t move to a foreign country if you can’t keep your hands on your passport.  I was mortified.

I kissed and hugged my parents goodbye and told them I was staying at Jessy’s so I would be closer to the Embassy in the morning.  My little blue car and I made it back to my sister’s house in less than an hour.  (The travel gods were on my side – or maybe the police officers took one look at my cracked windshield and my fully dented driver’s side and decided I couldn’t afford to pay a speeding ticket if they were to pull me over and issue one.)I picked up a large fry and an iced coffee from McDonald’s because as we all know even if that doesn’t solve the problem, and many times it can, it at least makes it bearable for a few moments.  I flew into Jessy’s house announcing my impending doom of having to continue my residence on her couch for the remainder of my life.  I calmly savored my salty goodness and then walked upstairs and opened the bedside drawer.  [Insert travel god hymn here.]  There it was.  Sitting in the empty drawer.  I did not lose my passport.  I just forgot where I had placed it.  It’s very different – I promise.

Wednesday I arrived promptly at the Embassy confidently clutching my passport (for dear life).  After having a quick chat with the plump security guard, I sauntered upstairs to the eighth floor (okay, I rode the elevator, but I sauntered to it!) and presented myself to Mary during the appropriate visa hours.  She had no idea who I was or what I wanted and such seemed to be the case every time I interacted with her.  She found my paperwork – it was in what looked very much like a pink and purple Lisa Frank folder.  We reviewed it.  She said it was perfect.  I smiled and was sure I’d be on the next flight out.  I wasn’t.  I had to return the next day to actually get my visa.  I left feeling assured that I would have my visa in hand by morning.  I shouldn’t have.

I received a phone call that afternoon from Mary asking if I knew where my passport was.  Now she had lost it!  I was positive I was going to live in my sister’s spare bedroom for the rest of my life surrounded by walls decorated with giant stickers of athletes from the previous tenant – a ten your old boy.  I immediately pulled out my navy blue portfolio and looked through the copies Mary had made for me and in between two was my passport.  It wasn’t lost!  It was just not in the place it was supposed to be (see Dad, I’m learning).  Apparently Mary had placed it back in my trusty manila envelope with my extra copies of paperwork.  She told me that in the morning when I made the hike back to Embassy Row, I would leave with my visa and I could have my ticket booked.  She was wrong.  Again.

But before I knew how wrong she was, I received an email Wednesday night from my new principal informing me that tickets had been researched and there were flights available each day for the next five days and that she would be booking me on the next flight out the moment I had my visa in hand.  Feeling falsely confident I jumped in my trusty old Sunfire and raced back to the eastern shore to double check my things to be shipped and to finish packing my checked luggage.  Needless to say I did not sleep at all.  Three hours after I laid my head down I was awake and once again tackling the 70 miles between Mom’s and Embassy Row.

My new BFF, Security Sally, was pleasantly surprised to see me again on Thursday morning.  I arrived before Mary only to learn there was a “situation” and “other things that needed to be done” and “no I couldn’t wait around all day”.  I also learned that Mary is looking into schools for her children as they will be moving back to Port Moresby in the next year or so.  She is very interested in Ela Murray.  I would jump at the opportunity to help her with her application and paperwork.  She nearly pushed me out of the office and shut the door on me as she swore, “Tomorrow.  It will be ready tomorrow.”   I tried to believe her.  I wanted to believe her.  I desperately want to believe her.  I sang “Tomorrow” from Annie over and over in my head the rest of the day.

After driving over 500 miles on Thursday between my parents’ on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, Embassy Row in Washington D.C., my sister’s outside of D.C., and my aunt’s in New Jersey, I was going to snap if I heard the word “tomorrow” again.  I parked at the same broken meter outside of the Embassy Friday morning and slowly walked into the lobby to be greeted by Security Sally – she had brought breakfast…for US!  She picked up an extra oatmeal cookie from Starbucks on her way in that morning knowing I would once again be returning.  Things were looking up.  I slowly walked into the Embassy offices to see my passport sitting on the counter ready for pick up.  I signed for it in an off brand composition notebook, no Lisa Frank this time, with black and white flowers on the front (very official looking of course).  I high-fived Security Sally on my way out after thanking her for breakfast again, emailed my new school, and was booked on the next flight out – 30 hours and counting.

I spent Friday night celebrating with my favorite people – celebrating for all of us!  Dinner was devoured.  Drinks were clinked.  Toasts were made.  It is always a blessing when good things happen for those that you love, it is even more wonderful when everyone has something to celebrate together – new jobs, new homes, new degrees, new babies.  We spent the night cheersing away! 

Now I sit here in LAX.  My passport is secured safely in my bag and my money is in many separate locations (see Dad, I do know what I am doing).  I arrived at the airport nearly three hours early to ensure I got on that plane in Dulles without a hiccup.  It was a painless flight.  I had a two hour layover – just enough time to change, brush my teeth, grab a quick bite to eat, and write this.  I will post as soon as I have a FREE wifi signal. 

Boarding my thirteen or so hour flight to Brisbane any minute now…