They Call Me The Space Cowboy
I did not have a good morning. My tale of woe:
Rush to Indian Consulate General in Vancouver with Canadian passports, money orders, and completed visa applications. Get there second in line, decide to double check my docs.
You know that sinking feeling you get as something dawns on you and yet the part of you that wants not to believe that life can be that cruel fights against it and the wrestling between your optimism and the brute force of reality makes you nauseous? Yeah, it was that.
My wife’s passport was there. Mine was not. Look through bag, nothin’. Go outside, hail cab, rush home and ransack place while cabbie reads up on the latest news from the Punjab. Nothin. Get back in cab with UK passport, go back to consulate, apply for more expensive visa in UK passport. Bus home, check in at coffee shop where I’d had my morning coffee. Nothin. Get home, phone rings, tell friend passport missing, he asks where I saw it last, I resist urge to say bad, insulting, things and instead tell him that I don’t know, probably a week ago when I was scanning my…
Check scanner. Passport falls out with grin on face. Sheepishly thank friend for his sagacious insight, immediately assume he has prophetic gifts.
Check in with rehab center to get free of the street-grade moronohol I seem to be addicted to and free-basing like I’m Amy Winehouse, only willing to admit my problem.
Don’t let this happen to you. Do you know where your passport is? Yes? Good. Do you know where your brain is? Mine seems to have buggered off this week.