In the summer of 1973, my husband and I were traveling in Greece and Turkey. From Ankara, we took regularly scheduled buses south to Konya, home of the Whirling Dervishes and further south, to the coast. By now, it was August and HOT. We spent one night in Silifke, in a cheap hotel across the street from the bus station. The next morning, we boarded the bus for an eight-hour trip along the rugged winding coastline.
We were out of luck in the seat department, so I sat in the back of the bus with Don standing next to me. About forty-five minutes into the trip, I casually looked up at him. “So, where did you put the passports?” A slight look of alarm crossed his face. “I thought you got them back from the hotel front desk.” Panic ensued. We tried to get off the bus, but someone who spoke English persuaded us not to do so. He promised to call the hotel at the next rest stop as we still had the receipt with name and number. Our savior said that they could just put them on the next bus. We endured the hot crowded bus, and I tried to keep my breakfast down as many others lost theirs. We also had the worry of two missing US passports and the wild ideas of who might steal them.
At the end of the bus trip, we went to the next cheap hotel and persuaded them that we actually had passports and that they were expected momentarily at the bus station. Don undertook the many trips to the station asking any bus that arrived if the driver or ticket taker had our passports. The next day, still no documents, so we found a travel agent who promised to help. He explained that the phone lines had been down for 24 hours, but were currently up and running again. Our savior from the day before couldn’t have contacted the hotel. By that time, we had lost the receipt for the hotel and couldn’t remember the name. “But it’s right across the street from the station!” The agent also said that because of the rivalry between bus companies, only the company whose bus we had been on would be willing to help. That meant that asking every bus that had arrived would be useless. We went to the market and bought a watermelon, putting it into the fridge in the lounge to cool. We went to the beach. Too hot. Back to our room. Too hot. Eat watermelon. Someone had stolen it. We went back to the travel agency. Someone else was there and knew nothing about passports.
By the next day, we were making plans to go to Ankara and visit the American Embassy. We fretted, Don went to the station and met yet more busses. After dinner, he said he was heading out again. “By now, they all know me and want to have conversations. Do you know what kind of men hang around bus stations? One asked me, ‘In America, is it true? That a man can go with a woman – for FREE?” I locked the door behind him. A loud banging woke me after midnight. Don grinned as he held up two green passports with eagles on them. “The bus was two hours late and everyone was snappish. I waited until everyone got off the bus, then leaned in to ask the driver, ‘Passports?’ He took one look at the red beard and reached forward, picking up the passports that had been sitting on the dashboard. He opened one, then the other. He handed them to me.”
The casualness of the loss, and return, of these vital documents has had a lasting effect on me. Ask me and I can put my hand on my passport within ten seconds, whether out and about or at home. I can be positively paranoid about separation from this little pamphlet. I’ve never let my passport expire and have saved every one I have gotten, except the first one. That was kept by the US Government when I was issued with my next one. And of course, they don’t belong to you, they are the property of the government.
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