A travel journal, part 9

The unthinkable happened. We tell the kids to keep their passports safe and secure. Barcelona, beautiful city that it is, is also well-known for its pickpockets.

On our last day we stopped to have lunch in a mall (El Corte Inglés) that has a rooftop restaurant with great views of the city. You have to go through security to enter the mall. The bottom floor has stores like Gucci, Prada and Versace. Fancy place. The restaurant, La Rotonda, is on the ninth floor and you have to go through additional security to enter.

We picked a spot near the cashier. It had a security camera above the table. It felt like a fairly safe place. I had my satchel with all of our important papers next to me; I was touching the strap.

One moment it was there; the next it was gone — including my passport!

In stead of spending the afternoon at the beach, I got to spend it visiting three different police stations to file a report. It was a Friday afternoon — siesta time — in Spain, so of course the U.S. consulate was closed. No chance of even starting the process for a replacement passport. And we were scheduled to fly out early the next morning. 

Not a situation you want to find yourself in!

They told me that there was a small chance I could fly out with the group. I still had my wallet with my REAL ID, my only glimmer of hope. The only bugaboo was a stopover we had in Zurich. 

Nope.

I went with the group to the airport early the next morning. They turned me away at the airline counter. It was the Zurich thing.

I had to stay behind while everyone else went home. The tour company was able to book me a hotel room near the airport for three days, which should be enough time to get an emergency passport. And the airline was able to reschedule my flight, so I didn't have to pay any rebooking fees.

Bu t I was stuck there. In a country where I didn't speak the language, with no passport, all alone.

I didn't take a lot of photos that afternoon. Here's one of us going to the first of three police stations.