Image: Vic and I in Santorini
It was my worst nightmare. Literally.
Santorini was a paradise, likely still is. The water was crystal clear and, while the beaches were okay, the architecture was enough to make you feel like you’re in Mount Olympus, walking amongst the Greek gods themselves. There were winding alleys that hid gems — people, stores, and restaurants — from those not adventurous enough to seek them.
And the views. My greek god, the views.
For me, though, it was both a heaven and a hell. It was my own Mount Olympus, the crescendo of an epic journey, albeit an unexpected one. I believed when I arrived there, that I would be moving on to Turkey, then India, on to South East Asia. Believe is even too weak a word, I was sure. There was no reason I shouldn’t have.
It was a day before we were due to leave. We were to meet the ferry to Turkey at 7 am the next day, and we couldn’t miss it. It would be the last day of my Schengen Visa and, even though we were both keen on staying a day or two more, we were restricted by my South African heritage—Vic had (likely still has) an EU passport.
I had been pedantic about keeping my passport safe. I had a secret compartment where I stored the irreplaceable items: my passport and my video camera. The first held proof of where I had been, the second proof of what it meant being there.
I think Vic was still sleeping, or at least lying in his bed. We were on a pilgrims budget and had opted for a shared room with twin beds at a small bed and breakfast about 200 meters from the beach.
I had just woken from a dream where I had to leave our trip early. If anything, it was a nightmare. My passport had been stolen and my trip, severing the trip at the neck. In the dream, I remember landing at the airport where I was met by two people. For the life of me, I can’t remember who they were now, but I remember them being significant at the time. I got off the plane, bought water, and proceeded to meet them at arrivals. The most lucid part of the dream was the price of the water: € 3.40. I remember thinking it strange that the price was still displayed in Euros even though I was back in South Africa. The fact that the airport was my old high-school seemed to be perfectly normal though.
It was one of those dreams that creates an uneasy feeling. The kind that will make a person start checking their things noisily while someone else is still sleeping. The first thing I did was to check the secret compartment. My hand felt the hard plastic of the compact video camera like it had the thousands of times I had performed the ritual. Only this time, I couldn’t feel my passport.
My heart began to race. Usually, I am not one to panic, but given the lingering lucidity of my dream and the residual fear of the result, I panicked hard.
“Shit bru,” I said out loud, trying to illicit support more than anything else. “It’s not here. It’s not here man.”
“What you on about?” Vic turned over in his bed to face me. He hadn’t been sleeping, just enjoying the time that having no where to be afforded one.
“I can’t find my passport!” I said, the urgency rising in my voice as my hands started to frantically search other compartments in my bag.
“It must be here somewhere,” he said in an unconcerned manner. “Let’s go get some breakfast and a cup of joe, and we can look again when we’re fresh.”
All things considered, it was a good plan. My passport had to be somewhere.
After breakfast, we missioned back to the room to give it a proper look. We turned the place inside out. We searched every pocket of six months worth of clothes, we searched his bag, we searched mine. We even searched in places that could not have possibly provided results. Like atop a cupboard that must have been there since the days of Zeus. It was nowhere.
I sat on the end of my bed and started retracing my steps. When last did I have it? A great point; as is the way with the EU zone, borders don’t really check passports. I racked my brain, there had to be checkpoint when I last had it in my hands. The authorities might not have checked passports often, but I certainly did.
Then it dawned on me: leaving Athens on a ferry to the first of many Greek islands we visited. They checked it there. Okay, at least I knew it was in Greece.
Somewhere.
Leaving Europe: A Series
As is the case with stories like this, they are long. I’ve decided to break this one into parts. The next of which will be ready next Wednesday. Subscribing to this newsletter will ensure you don’t miss the craziness that ensues.
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