Lost in:

I’m in love. I’m finally here, and I’m in love. They don’t make you go through security to get on your plane. No digging in bags, no strip search, no taking off shoes you’ve been wearing for three days straight. I love NZ.

And the weather ain’t bad, either.

But wow, some stuff’s expensive here. I might have a different spin on this than most of the people who come here to visit, because I’ll be here for a good long time (if I don’t screw up in school). But really, 13 dollars a kilo for limes? isn’t that a bit much? More than 4 dollars for the little jar of icky old el paso salsa. Dry beans are like 2.50 a pound. It’s crazy.

And not a single pile of easter chocolate for less then 4 dollars. Bunnys start at like 8, and for something worth snacking on- it’s closer to 20.

But it’s pretty, and I can live quite well on lentils and potatoes, and noodles and stuff. I’ll just be really healthy. Ick. Healthy.

The town itself (Palmerston North) is very colorful, and for a place with less than 80k people, very busy and built up. With big tall buildings and everything. Just about anything I want I can probably find here, or if not here, it’s only a short-ish bus ride to wellington. I’m told it’ll get boring eventually, but… as I said, it’s only a short bus ride to wellington, and there’s a train to Aukland, and flights leave the local airport every hour or two. If I get bored, I can go somewhere else.

Ok, This is from a couple days ago, I admit, and I’m nowhere near there right now, but it’s probably about as caught up as I’m ever gonna get.

Not me, again, but something more important. My passport. Bad in normal circumstances, nearly killed me today. It’s the 11th of February. I am in San Jose, California, because the best free flight I could get brought me here last night. Not bad, right?

Note to people who answer phones at hotels for a living- When someone asks if there is any way to get to your hotel without taking a taxi, don’t tell them that the taxi is the only way when there is a bus to a lightrail station, which has a stop (on the same line no less) right in front of the freaking hotel.

Me? Bitter? Over paying 16 dollars for a taxi trip that would have cost me only 1.75 if the freaking lady would just have told me how to get there on the very good local public transit?

But I’m wandering. I stayed (courtesy of dad’s Marriott points) in a very nice room at the Downtown San Jose Marriott, and because I guess dad spends way to much time at hotels, I was a “very special guest” (no, not little yellow bus special) and got chocolate truffles, coffee, tea, my choice of soda, water, wine or some other drink I don’t remember, and my choice of cheese and cracker plate, fruit and pretzel plate, or… um… Don’t remember the other option, actually. All for free. Nice, yes? and because they love my daddy dollars so very much, I also got the w00t! l33t! concierge level, which means really nice soaps and shampoos and whatnot.

Which brings us up to this morning. When I checked out. With my passport. I know I had it, because I checked. It was (important word there- was) in the pocket of my cute jacket. So I dragged my heavy duffel bag (which is carry on size and only really weighed 11.2 kilos), and the backpack I brought to Africa, and my little black backpack, that I also brought to Africa. All jam packed full of stuff. If I were allowed two whole carry-ons and a personal item, I would be able to do it. Damned changes.

Picture this- Tall Skinny girl wearing, oh, two full layers of clothing, because I like the jacket, and don’t have room for the skirt, like the pockets in my jeans, and it’s a bit too chilly not to wear a shirt. Over this I put on the duffel, with the strap over my left shoulder, and the bag in front of me, looking very full, and feeling very heavy, the backpack went on over that- and here is my critical gailure- with the waist-strap cinched over my jacket, and indeed, over my passport. On my right shoulder, I put my little bag- full of computer, and book, and slowly de-charding cell phone, because I didn’t think to bring a charger. With all this, I lumber (lightly) down to checkout, and then across the street to the previously mentioned light rail station. Where I get on the wrong train. So I get off at the next stop, and walk toward the San Jose main train station, Dridion (i think that’s the name, anyway…). I just happen to pass another lightrail station, this one only serving the line I need, so I sit down and try to wait for the train.

For those interested, you can fit a lot of stuff into a really small bag, and if some of it is books, and you look like me (bones sticking out where maybe they shouldn’t) it doesn’t take much for the backpack/ duffel/ purse weight to be too much. So I took a break and hoped a train would come by. None did- Saturday schedual, you know. Gave up after a while, and walked the last half mile or so to the main train station, to buy a ticket, and catch a train up to the airport in San Fransisco. Which I did, getting on the 1pm train with like 15 minutes to spare. Got settled down, and checked my stuff to make sure I had everything and whoops, guess what was missing.

Yeah, my passport. 6 and a half hours before I get on a plane to go to New Zealand. For which I need my passport. On the floor across the aisle is the ticket stuf from my flight last night, so I search the floor- not there. Search my bag- not there. Ask the other people in the car if they’ve seen it- nope. The guy helps me, as I grab my stuff and go to the car I came in, to check the train- not there. Get off the train and about a minute later, they close the doors, and it leaves. At this point, I am, to put it mildly, trying very hard not to freak out totally, while also trying to convince myself that it’s just back up the tunnel, at the ticket counter, that I dropped it there, and someone found it and handed it over to them- but nope, nopt there either. But in my super lucky favor, the nice lady at the ticket counter lets me leave my stuff back in the ticket office, while I run around like a (by then) crying headless chicken. I go out the doors, and down the sidewalk, cross the street, twice, and don’t see it. Call my father, by now failing at the “not freaking out” thing. A lot. In public. Go in every open place and ask every person I seeif they’ve seen it, while my father calls the hotel, and I call the VTA- the popel who run the light rail- and the police, to see if that’s who I call to report it lost.

For the future help of otherpeople, you can file a police report, but you have to do it in person, over the internet, or by mail. The people you really need to talk to are the USPS (closed on Saturdays) or the State Department, who issue those nice reports on which country is safe. They say this one is, and everywhere else in dangerous. Obviously they need to have a chat with the honeland security people. who say everywhere is dangerous.

So, no calling went on after that. I ran back to the hotel. Checked the Hilton next door, checked the convention center, still on and off crying, and all the time getting calls from dad, who is talking to the hotel, which didn’t find it- didn’t think they would. Oh, yeah, everywhere back to the hotel? Hadn’t seen it. Like it disappeared. But there was an all points bulliten on my passport on the lightrail trains. Cool, eh?

Yeah, so there’s totally freaking out, dejected me talking to dad on the phone, who was looking for a hotel for me for about a week- the minumum time to replace my passport, and get a new copy of my freaking visa- which I need to take my flight, because NZ doesn’t let most people in on one way tickets. Dad was also talking about calling Air NZ to switch my flight to a day I might be able to get on it, but… yeah. So I headed back to the train station, on foot. And totally freaking out has taught me that I might, in fact, hreally have asthma, since I couldn’t breathe. Still can’t. Here I am, gasping for air, and I’m not flipping out anymore, I don’t think.

Right, so there I am, and I walk all the way back to the place, am within easy viewing distance of both the lovely arena, and the trainstation, when mom calls. I talk to her, and she tells me to calm down, and I hang up. I promise I’m not usually this crazy, but… Yeah. So I get to the last street I have to cross before the train station, and there, sitting in the middle of it, is this suspicious blue square.

No, I think, no way I walked right past it an hour and a half ago, I am not that stupid. So I walk over, and, with a bit more road rash there, indeed, was my passport, complete with visa. I am so Happy. I am so stupid. I call mom, because I just got off the phone with her, and I know she has her phone on, and should answer it, and ask her to call dad and tell him not to change the ticket, that I found the damned thing. Then my phone tried to die, so I turned it off. Went into the train station, told the really nice lady that I found it, grabbed by bags, thanked her, and got back to the platform in time for the 3pm train, which should get me to the airport (I hope) with two hours to check in and whatnot.

I am the luckiest and unluckiest person on earth. That bastard is deep in my purse, now and not getting lost again