Passports Please ...
A Travel Horror Story

"You have an extension for this right?" With a seasoned look acquired only by those accustomed to giving bad news, the British Airways employee handed me back my passport. I was stunned. "No," I said, looking into her eyes for some sign of reassurance as I desperately searched for and located the expiration date: April 23, 2006-three months ago. The date hit me like a dart between the eyes. How could this be? How could I, the super-organized, traveler, let this happen? I felt dizzy as panic set in. "Give me some good news," I pleaded, hoping she would offer a simple solution to bypass the devastating consequences of this oversight. And then she spoke the terrible words: "I can't let you on this plane without a valid passport… I'm sorry but I have to give away your seats."

I glanced across the check-in counter. The look on my husband's face said it all-- disappointment and resignation layered over exhaustion like stamps on the passport pages of our fast-fading vacation. All the sleepless nights wrapping up loose ends and preparing for a three-week absence from work stared back at me as our plans evaporated from his weary eyes. No one at the check-in counter had any helpful information. The best they could do was to keep the rest of our reservation intact. They explained that if we could get back with a valid passport within four days they would try to get us to London in time to rescue the remainder of our trip.

The next few hours seemed like decades. Desperately attempting damage control, I hit one brick wall after another. We stood helpless in Kennedy International Airport at takeoff time, as somewhere above us our plane took flight. Finding a quiet corner seemed as impossible as getting a new passport in three days. Finally, I found an empty chair and called everyone I know in New York City-no one was home. We tried to get a schedule of Jet Blue flights back home for that night-all ticket counters were closed. We searched in vain for an Internet hot-spot, nada. At long last, we found a helpful man who offered us an 800 number, which he thought, gave information on renewing passports. After being filed into an endless loop of "press 1 for this, press 2 for that," and 20 minutes on hold, the line went dead. Our t-mobil talk time had expired. That was just cruel! It took every ounce of self restraint not to slam our bran new $300.00, useless phone into the wall. After searching in vain for a replacement T Mobil card, I bought a ridiculously expensive AT&T card from a news stand and finally reached my mother. Her voice coming out of the receiver was a lifeline to the world outside of this hostile terminal that was holding us hostage. She was in motion to find a solution before I could get the words out. The Jet Blue ticket counter eventually opened and we discovered that the last plane out was leaving in less than an hour. Rather than remain stranded in NY with no hotel reservation and a passport office known for endless lines and unsympathetic employees, we spent the $300.00 on two one- way tickets back home.

On our flight back I couldn't sleep, eat or drink. At 30,000 feet, strapped in and powerless to make any headway, my mind was in overdrive. The domino effect of this catastrophic mistake began to play itself out in my mind : the hotel reservations I'd have to cancel, the new ones I'd have to make, a non-refundable apartment rental, my dog abandoned in a kennel for god knows how long, and the let down of my family who was expecting us to arrive the next day. But most troubling was the disappointment radiating from the seat next to me. Our trip was supposed to include a short stay in London. It had been my husband's life-long dream to visit Chartwell, the home of Winston Churchill and he had talked of nothing else for days. It was now almost certainly not going to happen.

We opened our front door at midnight feeling tired and defeated. Crossing the threshold was like entering the Twilight Zone. The house was full of reminders that we weren't supposed to be here : notes to various people house and pet sitting taped to the kitchen cabinets, a box labeled MAIL in the front hall, and a large pile of cat food on the kitchen table. Only Tora, my Calico greeted us apathetically, our timely return completely expected, mewing as if to say "Where've you been? Dinner was hours ago."

Our answering machine was blinking. Only one person knew of our aborted trip. It had to be my mother. Bad news again. The only way to expedite a passport renewal was to call the same 800 number I had been trying to reach earlier and make an appointment through an automated system (god forbid you should talk to an actual human being!) and show up with all the necessary paperwork to plead your case. They guarantee an appointment within two weeks. Two weeks! This option was not a viable one for us. In two weeks our entire trip would be down the toilet. Just for the hell of it I called the number. After an endless time on hold I was given an appointment for a week later in Norwalk, Connecticut. Where the hell is Norwalk Connecticut? I unfolded the map -- six hours driving time from my home in the opposite direction from New York City. Our predicament was becoming hopeless, but as a last ditch effort we googled some likely terms hoping for a lifeboat. An hour later a dim possibility emerged like a rescue boat out of the fog. We found a service that guaranteed a new passport in 24-48 hours. But was it a scam? How could we find out if it was legitimate? By now it was 3:30 a.m. and my eyelids felt like bricks. I had to lie down.

... continued on page 2