“Lillebeth (my cousin’s childhood nickname),” I said when she thankfully picked up. “It’s Lynnie (my childhood nickname) calling from Paris. “We’ve run into some trouble here.”
“What kind of difficulty are you in?”
“I’ve lost my passport!”
“Oh, God! How awful! How did this happen?”
“I’m not really sure. We were walking in the Tuilerie Gardens. We were lots of places, really. I could have lost it, or it could have been stolen. I don’t know what to do. Our tickets for Oslo are Monday in the afternoon. There’s only tomorrow and Monday morning to fix the situation.”
“Listen, Lynnie,” my cousin said. “I’ll talk to a few people here to see if there’s anything to be done. I’ll call you back later.”
A no-nonsense familiar voice. Heaven!
Lillebeth did call me back and told me to get a police report. She said there might be a slight possibility that the Norwegian airline would let my fly to Oslo without a passport…as long as I had proof my identity was lost or stolen.
Paul and I took off after the call and, more or less reTRACED our steps looking in vain for my black neck travel wallet. We ended up meeting a policeman in the park and followed his directions to the nearest police station, which–by some miracle of a reverse in fortune heading in the right direction–was still open.
By the end of that day, I had a little slip of paper–an official stamped and dated police report, signaling loss of passport. Paul had contacted the Norwegian airline and the official there said we should come to the airport early on Monday afternoon and try our luck.
We still had Sunday in Paris ahead of us, and Monday morning.
Time to put our feet up on our little private terrace, tear off pieces of our baguette, spread it with some camembert, drink a little wine and Perrier and celebrate having gotten through the ups and downs of this day together in Paris.