Story #7 of the 100 Day Project: Passports
This is my sweet Rowan, now 16, who was almost 3 in this photo. It was his first trip to see our family in Austria. We had a layover in Atlanta and then on to Munich. When we boarded our flight, I had a carry on, Rowan and two additional kids in tow. As I made my way to the back of the plane with my traveling circus, I got everyone settled, bags stowed and sat down in my seat, somewhat exasperated, but relieved to be seated for our 7 hour flight.
As is my practice, I put everyone’s passports in my special folio. Counting. Always counting. 1-2-3-....wait. Three? Count again. 1-2-3. Yep. Three. I frantically open each one to see who is missing. I had them all when we boarded, as the agent checks them at the podium. It’s Rowan’s that is MIA. I jump up and walk the aisle, “Excuse me” and “Pardon Me”-ing my way to the front of the plane, checking the floor. Nothing. It’s gone. How is this possible?
I went back to our seats and went through my bag again. Nope. It’s gone. Maybe someone found it somewhere and turned it in? I’m sure that’s it. I’ll ask the flight attendant. She looks nice. She’s got a cute smile and friendly — OH. MY. GOD. Never ask the flight attendant. We’ve been raised to ask the “helpers.” That’s what Mr. Rogers said. But apparently flight attendants are NOT helpers. Because in my time of desperation and need, she told me we needed to get off the plane. I’ve never gone into shock, but I almost feigned a heart attack and was willing to be shocked by a defibrillator just to stay on that plane. We bought tickets. We were in Atlanta. My cousin was waiting for us. I wanted to cry. Being the dutiful traveler, I always made copies of our passports. Can’t we just go to the embassy and sort this out when we arrive? The answer to that is a hard no. All I could think was that (a) this is not happening (b) these are NOT the friendly skies and (c) the schnitzel in Atlanta probably sucks.
Mere seconds before we were booted from the plane, I walked the aisle one more time, going to the door and back. As I walked through First Class (because I only EVER have WALKED through first class), a woman stood up and said, “I’m sitting on something! Is this what you’re looking for?” OMG. THE PASSPORT. Still warm from her ample rump. Usually I just give the lucky ducks in first class the side-eye, but I wanted to straight up kiss her. Who cares if her husband objected. This woman saved our trip!
The moral of this story is, unless you’re having chest pain or slurred speech (not from the pre-boarding hooch you enjoyed), TELL THE ATTENDANT NOTHING. Get where you wanna go and then sort it out. They may look cute in their uniforms, but they’ll straight up throw an adorable, innocent toddler off a plane in a strange city. No joke.
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