Ireland. Italy. Germany. Spain. These are a few of the countries' stamps in my blue passport. I applied for the passport in 2005 when my family planned a trip to Guatemala. That first internation trip infected me with the travel bug. My passport became my gateway to endless travel possibilities.
A couple years after going to Guatemala, I traveled around Italy by train with two of my girlfreinds. With my passport in hand I was able to explore the beautiful vineyards of quiet villages, the busy streets of Rome and the breathtaking majesty of the Sistine Chapel. It was the only personal belonging that I needed in order to jump on a train and be transported to my next European adventure.
Our last train ride in Italy, before we moved on to France, was an overnight trip from Rome to Florence. I was excited to ride in a sleeper car rather than in coach. The trip would be comfortable and restful. We boarded the train and sat patiently for someone to assist us in pulling out our bunks. As more passengers boarded, an elderly French couple joined our car. They smiled and began talking to us. We politely explained we did not speak French, signaling to our U.S. passports and talking in English. The old woman responded with a huge smile. Without hesitation, she continued to tell us what was either a series of jokes or her life story.
An English speaking attendant arrived to check our tickets and passports. She informed us that she would hold our passports for the remainder of the trip. That made me nervous. But the French couple handed their passports over without question; so we did the same. The attendant assured us she would return our documents by 4:30 a.m., 30 minutes before our stop. We unfolded the three tiers of bunks on each side of the car and tried to settle in for the ride. The beds were so close together that we were nearly sleeping in the same bed as the French couple.
Finally, a knock came at our door. Groggily I accepted the pile of passports from the train attendant. As we prepared to leave our car I checked the pile of documents to see if everything was accounted for. That's when I realized my passport was gone. With only five minutes until our stop, I raced around the train searching for someone to help. No one I spoke to understood English. My mind was racing. What had happened to my passport? Was it stolen? Lost? I kept a calm appearance but in my head I was wishing my trip to France a frantic farewell.
I returned to my friends, having had no luck finding help. As I sat down in defeat, the English-speaking conductor passed by our door. I sprung up and caught her in the hall, quickly explaining my dilemma. She checked the pile of passports in her hand. There it was: my passport had been shoved between the pages of another book. Relief flooded over me. My travel plans were not ruined. I was not stranded in Italy and my adventure could continue. I was going to France.
Written for News Writing Class
September 30,2010
