I am back now from the brink. It may sound like surprisingly bad luck, but hours after posting that last update regarding my recent struggles, I realized that my jacket felt unusually light, which meant something was missing. Given that I keep everything in a specified pocket of the two jackets that I’ve brought with me, I can tell pretty quickly what is missing. I was asked recently if I have some kind of condition along the lines of OCD. To answer: no; I just hate losing things with passion and vigor. And here is where the tale begins.

As I mentioned, my jacket felt light—more specifically, the inside left pocket of my jacket, which is where I usually keep a document of little to no consequence…little thing we refer to in the States as a PASSPORT.

I had been chatting with some Australian guys down in the bar of the hostel I was staying in, because they made that (conveniently for them, when it comes to the bar tabs they rack up) the only area where WiFi is available. After letting them explain to me the rules of Cricket, they went up to bed. It was around 1am at this time, and I had just been relaxing after doing some work earlier in a Starbucks. I thought I had followed my routine of either keeping my passport on my person, tucked away in my locker, or in a hidden compartment in my backpack. After realizing that it wasn’t in my coat, I checked my backpack. Nothing. Ran upstairs to a completely pitch black room with 20 sleeping people inside and whipped open my locker. Wasn’t there either. Panic sets in. This is my nightmare.

I rifle through my sheets, thinking it could’ve fallen out. I take apart my backpack piece by piece in the hallway. I follow that up with my suitcase. Nothing. I look through two garbage cans, all the lockers, and the floor around my bed for an hour. Nothing. I noticed some bags around the lockers, but me not being a creep, decide to wait until morning before asking the owners to inspect them. 2am hits. I run down to the bar and ask the bartender with a cool, collected, “I’m such a dolt” tone of voice.

“Hey, dude. This is going to sound nuts (pat my head with my hand), but have you seen a passport?”

Of course he hadn’t seen a fucking passport, because no one thinks to look for one, because no one thinks that people could be so foolish as to not have it chained to their bodies.

I think that it must be either at the Starbucks or in the gutter from the hostel TO the Starbucks. It’s freezing outside. I am fresh off of a several day bout of not eating ANYTHING, but I decide to head back to the shop to see if anyone is there (fuck YOU. SOMEONE COULD’VE BEEN CLEANING IT!) Before this, I was frantically calling my mom and dad, gritting my teeth and referring to myself constantly as a moron in front of the people in the bar (this was all via the Skype service which is, again, dependent on the WiFi, which exists only where all the people gather to drink and to watch people make assholes of themselves). I let the chill of London at night wash over me as I contemplated stepping in front of a street cleaner as I walked to the Starbucks, where naturally, no one was cleaning. I saw they opened at 6:30am, and set my alarm to meet them there at that time.

After not sleeping for the rest of the night, I ran back to the goddamn fuckin’ Starbucks at 6am. I had been there all day the day before, and the guy that I spoke with on several occasions looked at me as I rapped on the door as if I was a monster. I told him the situation, and then waited as HE went and looked for it, as he was fearful of letting me in. No luck. I walked back to the hostel, started packing my things up, and was preparing to go to the embassy.

The hostel started serving free breakfast at 7, and by the time I had gone through everything one more time, showered, packed up, and hit my head on the wall a few more times, I was ready to eat something. This proved to be key, as when I went back up to the room at around 8am, one of the Australian guys I had been talking to the night before was waking up. He sees that I’m packed and heading out the door, says so long, and goes to his bag, which is near the locker I had been using. I ask if he had seen a passport. He says nope. I see he’s looking in his bag, and turn around to walk out the door to the embassy, where I would have to pay 200 dollars to have a replacement made.

“Hey, mate. Is this it?”

I turn around, expecting this to be a joke and to find him holding a big pink dildo. But sure enough, a royal blue passport.

“Fuck off,” I say, as I run over. I flip to my terrible photo to confirm before throwing my hands up in elation. My nightmare was over. Fuck.