It’s got to be somebody’s law: You will always know where ________ is until the very moment you need it (fill in the blank). Over the last couple of months, my blank has been filled in with “passport.” I got my passport almost 10 years ago, and it’s got all sorts of fun stamps from places like Prague, Copenhagen, and Krakow in it. It’s been floating around our apartment since we moved in, and I’ve known where it was (roughly) until Kevin and I actually decided to put them (he’s gotten one recently) to good use. And that’s when it went missing.
I’ve searched as many places as I could think of—boxes, books, shelves, cupboards, closets, you name it. No passport.
My decision to bite the bullet and replace it was two fold:
1) We’re traveling the end of May, and should there be any complications within the 5-week window you’re to allow for processing, we’ll at least have some time, and
2) It expires next year anyway, so why not?
With that in mind, I set out this morning, paperwork in hand, to file for a replacement. The plan was to leave at 8, arrive at post office, file, and be home by 8:45, 9 if we’re being generous.
Well, I didn’t drag my lazy self out of bed until 9:45. The morning is not my friend, and I was doubtful of my own self-discipline to leave at 8 to begin with.
First stop: Post Office near home. I walk in to find a sign reading, “Sorry for the inconvenience. Today [only] we are not accepting passport applications.” Other USPS offices are listed, but, being the rebel that I am, I head to my second choice—the County Clerk’s Office. The time is roughly 10:06.
I drive the few miles in between, and my heart sinks as I catch a glimpse of the Clerk’s parking lot—it’s empty. Oh, wait! There’s one car. I must be the only interested party today. Lucky me!
Lucky indeed—their office is only open Monday—Friday (something I would have known had I taken the time to check).
“No matter!” I think. I grab my trusty GPS and type in “Post Office.” Perfect there’s one just down the road. According to GPS (or Gepus, as we affectionately call him), my arrival time will be 10:27.
I arrive at USPS location #2 and though my heart drops at both its size and the volume of cars in the parking lot, I assuage myself with the thought that they’re not there for passports (how common could the need for them be, anyway?). The though is short-lived, as I enter to find a line no shorter than 20 people—all waiting for passports. And they're having a great time, too. Alas, I cannot partake of such frivolity at a time like this.
I text my husband to tell him of my travails and ask his opinion. He suggests just waiting until Monday. I consider this, but my impatience gets the best of me, and I search for another Post Office location. It’s only 4.2 miles away. Not bothering to check the arrival time, I head out, hopeful that this location is smaller, less crowded, and I can make it home by 11:30.
Well, I got my wish. This Post Office was indeed smaller, and there was only one patron in line before me. However, taking in the outside, inside, and manner of the single employee behind the counter, I’m not so sure I would entrust a postcard for their delivery, nonetheless a document that requires everything short of a blood sample to obtain. After a brief internal struggle, I retire once again to my car, not caring whether they actually do file for passports or not.
At this point, I was starting to feel like I do when eating from a bag of potato chips—“Just one more; just one more.” I also shortly entertain the thought that maybe the Lord just does not want me to go to Europe. That thought is short lived, as I decide that He’s going to have to be slightly more forceful if that’s the case.
The clock reads 11:02, and Gepus told me I could be to the next nearest Post Office location at 11:24. Can’t pass up a deal like that!
Beginning to feel only slightly anxious, I wonder what the penalty for forgery of an official document of this nature would be. Forgery can’t be too hard, can it?
At 11:23 (gotta love speeding!), I arrived at the next Post Office that the all-wise Gepus advised. Large, yes, but not overly crowded. I think we’ll be okay. The end is in sight.
But a sign out front changes all that.
“This office does not accept passport applications.” Of course it doesn’t.
“Those can be handled at our main office at [fill in said address].” Of course they can.
I began taking note as my gas tank began slipping from ¾ full to half on my way to Post Office #4, Stop Number 6. Having not eaten breakfast before leaving home (because morning is not my friend, remember?), I stopped briefly at a gas station and purchased a drink.
Upon arriving at the maze of arrows and gravel that is Post Office #4, I let out my only cry of frustration of the entire morning, as I’m routed every way but the right way to get into a parking spot.
There are only three customer-labeled parking spots, all vacant, and I snag one. As I enter the large building with a small office, I exult at the sign that reads, “This office is for passports only. All commercial post office business is taken at [fill in said address].” Now we’re talking!
The lady behind the counter seems pleasant, and I hand her my documents (everything but some blood), and begin to remove my checkbook from my purse (checks only; no debit).
“You’re going to have to take another picture.” Of course I am.
“They’ve changed the laws, and you can’t be smiling in passport photos any more. See how it distorts you face?” Hm. I’ll have to remember that the next time I’m smiling. Thanks for the complex.
“And, since you’ve gotten married since your last passport was issued, we’ll need a copy of your marriage license.” In all the fine print that I did read, obviously that was one part that I didn’t.
So, I leave the fourth Post Office of the day, still with no passport, beginning to hunger, and done attempting to plan anything else for the remainder of my Saturday waking hours. It’s 12:10, and it only takes me thirty minutes to drive from that Post Office to home, and then back to where I took my passport pictures the first time to have them redone. It’s during this trip that I wonder if Kevin can just carry me in his suitcase. He’s strong, and though I’m far over the 50-pound weight limit, the extra fee might actually be worth it.
At 12:45 the lady at the photo lab tells me I can walk around the store for ten minutes until the (unsmiling) pics are ready. At 1:01, she’s standing with two co-workers at the printer, shaking her head slowly from side to side.
“There’s a really big order in front of you, and it’s not uploading your picture.” Naturally. After pacing a few times in front of the photo counter, I break down and buy a bag of Doritos. After all, it’s going to do nobody any good if I finally make it to the passport office and pass out before the dang thing can finally be filed.
At 1:10, the photo lab manager, hands me my new photos. It’s then that I realize that smiling may distort my face, but not smiling proves that my eyes are indeed two different sizes. (Distorted picture or Igor-lookalike? Hm. Tough call.)
All documents in hand, it only takes me a few minutes in the parking lot to fill out the final paperwork once back at the Post Office. I run through the documents in my head—application, form admitting I did in fact lose my passport, marriage license, birth certificate, and driver’s license. (For only a brief second, I ponder the irony if I didn’t actually have my driver’s license, but, alas, it was present.)
As I hand it to the lengthy-haired gentleman behind the counter, I sigh. After all this work, a few staples and two checks from the checkbook that I so rarely “happen” to have on me, seal the deal.
I sign my name (in black ink only), and leave the office.
It’s slightly anticlimactic. So much work. For a little book of paper.
It’s just before 2 pm when I arrive home.
Time for lunch.
