I can’t find my passport, and it truly saddens me. I found the forms that accompanied it so reordering should be painless, but that is not the point. I had already been to England and Ireland and had stamps for both. I’ll have the memories, sure, but in today’s digital age I have read that impersonal barcode scanners are quickly replacing the colorful inks that serve as quick reminders of all the places we visit and the truly remarkable memories they represent. It might be self-serving and perhaps a tad archaic of myself to think we still need the extra steps that would only lengthen an already dreadful part of air travel. I admit, the customs line is not the most pleasant part of an overseas experience, but it is the first one. When you exit the plane and take in your environment, the people, the smells, the air itself, it immediately becomes apparent you are not truly home anymore. The first thing you do is head for customs and it’s this step that defines your trip. You are no longer in a familiar country, but instead another part of the world. Your first experience with the locals will perhaps be these very customs officers as they ask you those simple questions. Pleasure, I am here for pleasure. And when they stamp your passport it is this mark that, in some future time and place, will trigger the memories of a moment when you got to experience another place, another culture that might not be so different than where you are from, but a place that is special to you because of the memories associated with that simple pink or blue rubber stamp.
I really don’t have a clue where my passport is, but it is very possible I have put it away for safe keeping and have completely forgotten where that place exists. I have done that my entire life, putting things away and then forgetting where away is. I remember being nine or ten and hiding change that I had saved for the ice cream truck so my visiting cousin would not steal it for himself. The next day I could hear the truck playing his tinny carnival music down the street and I immediately run inside to collect my money. After searching for what seemed to be forever, I could hear the truck’s music become fainter. It was leaving and I could not remember where I hid my change. To make matters worse, my cousin strolls in with the biggest scoop of ice cream I had ever seen. As I sat brooding over the situation, it was only a matter of minutes that I realized where I had stashed the change. Sure enough, I see it at the bottom of the pen cup by the telephone. I quickly grabbed the whole jar and sprint out the door only to find the ice cream truck was no longer anywhere near our neighborhood.
One might think I would learn my lesson after such experiences, but they still happen to this day. I’ll hide something and then forget where I hid it. Sometimes I run across these things days later, sometimes years later, but on occasion I never find them. I wonder how many things that will be forever lost in the abyss because I have simply forgotten they were even hidden. Well, I am sure that will not be the case with my passport. I will need it next year and I will continue to look for it, even as my new one lies quietly hidden away in some drawer.
