Chacos: Whiskey tango foxtrot — the item I forgot to pack
The airplane touched down on the tarmac without incident, and I still couldn’t shake the subtle and unsettling feeling that I was forgetting something. I went over my mental checklist again.
The oven was turned off and the door to the house was locked. The rental car was confirmed. The small bag I packed contained only two outfits that could rearrange themselves into four days of sightseeing and I had an extra pair of underwear in case of an emergency. I knew my toiletry kit supplied my favorite potions in under-3-ounce sizes, and I even left enough room in my luggage to return from overseas with a few new, sparkly items.
I carried it all on a backpack that fit in the overhead bin, guaranteeing my luggage would never be lost én route. I am a seasoned and savvy traveler, I reminded myself. Then panic set in. I forgot to bring my passport.
Closing my eyes, I replayed my packing routine from the evening before. I began taking deep, measured breaths, the ones well-meaning therapists have instructed me to do every time I get behind the wheel for my morning commute to work.
The woman seated on the plane next to me stared as if I were a lion in a zoo and asked if everything was alright. “Ignore the sweat building on my forehead and mind your own business,” I wanted to shout. I took another long, slow breath and cursed holistic health. Tucked away in a tidy drawer at home was my passport, and I was supposed to board another plane for my long-haul flight to London.
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I quickly thought of the time the family filed out of the car with skis, poles, helmets, and goggles. Heading to the hill is a coordinated effort, and for me, a test in patience. On this bluebird day, we were ready to hit the slopes guided by broad smiles and fresh powder. My husband turned to me and asked if I’d seen his boot. As in a singular, single ski boot. We turned around and drove home in silence. It took me several days before I could even pretend to look at him kindly.
Then I remembered when my son called me last year on his way to the airport, saying his friend, who often runs late, also left his passport at home. The would-be travelers now needed to turn the car around and retrieve it. Frustrations ran high as they missed their flight to Mexico. Once on the beach with beer in hand, the easygoing friends could shed their discontent and laugh with their carefree, breezy friend. I would have left him behind.
Deep within me resides a critic, a highly organized goblin that thinks in flowcharts and bullet points. She is still learning to keep quiet when offspring are sent to the grocery store and come home with a bag full of food, yet missing the one lemon or dish soap that was the entire reason for the trip in the first place. It’s hard to hold one’s tongue, especially when some of life’s requests seem so straightforward.
Back on the airplane, I debated whether to turn around and take a return flight home to get the document myself because I wouldn’t have to ask for help or fess up to my big blunder. I wanted it to remain my dirty little secret. I sat with that stupidity for a handful of seconds, feeling sorry for myself, before swallowing my pride and taking in another thoughtful, four-second-long breath of recycled airplane air.
I turned on my phone and began making calls like a Wall Street stockbroker on the trading room floor and said goodbye to my now-speechless seatmate. My son didn’t answer my repeated calls and figured his teachers had finally decided to be serious about taking their phones away during class. Then I got in touch with a friend working from home. He kindly offered to go to my house and rummage through my family’s personal effects to retrieve my passport.
I’ll never know why my cousin answered my call while she was surrounded by peaceful mountain peaks on a lovely hike with her dogs, and now wasn’t the time to confront her about making better life choices. Along the trail, she ran into a mutual friend, and they struck up a conversation about flying. “What a coincidence,” she said.
He was heading down the trail to leave for the airport within the hour. She hurried after him and asked if he’d be willing to get my passport to the airport if it could be delivered to the parking lot in 10 minutes. I didn’t know what I was going to do after that, but I’d figure out the next steps once the parking lot transaction was complete.
My passport was finding its way to me through a series of tiny miracles and eventually hitchhiked its way onto a flight bound in my direction. I was told to wait at gate B68, yet when the last passenger walked off the jet bridge, the flight attendants came off empty-handed, too. I was crestfallen and running out of time. Finally, the pilot walked off, the way that pilots do and handed me my passport like it was no big deal. He turned and walked back onto the plane the same way he walked off, cool and effortless.
I had been stretching for hours and preparing for this moment my entire life. I was ready for the sprint I’d need to endure to get all the way to the other end of the half-mile terminal before the boarding closed at gate B4. I strapped on my now perfectly packed backpack, reminded myself that I was a seasoned, savvy traveler, and ran carefree all the way onto a plane to see my daughter in London.
Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor and some flair.
