NaBloPoMo 2020 The time my passport was stolen in Sweden by Gypsies

This whole adventure went down in ancient history. Way before 9/11 and cell phones....

The tunnelbana, aka Subway, in Stockholm

Maybe a week before I was supposed to fly home after living in Stockholm for over a year, gypsies stole my passport. I was riding in the tunnelbana, aka the subway, and my handbag was on the floor in between my ankles. As the subway pulled into a stop, I saw a really little kid dash out the door. Turns out, the bastard had my wallet in his hot little hands.

The gypsies trained their kids to crawl underneath the subway seats and take people's wallets out of their handbags. I wish someone had mentioned this slightly earlier.

My passport was in my wallet. Furthermore, I had no other identification except for a chewed up college ID. I was concerned about my chances of success if I attempted to use it to board a plane. I say this not just because it's unlikely that college IDs pass muster for international flights, but also because the photo on the ID was taken the day after I had my wisdom teeth removed. I had a very misshapen head. 

I went over to the American Embassy and told them my father would kill me if I missed my flight and so I needed a passport on the quick. They asked me for my birth certificate. I told them what my mom had told me when I called home (collect) and asked for it: "Someone lost your birth certificate years ago. Probably your father. Anyway, it's gone."

American Embassy in Stockholm

So not helpful, in other words. I was in a foreign country with zero ID.

The Embassy lady continued filling out some form despite me telling her this whole woebegone tale. I was surprised she kept writing. I thought I'd be kicked to the curb. She asked me a bunch of questions about my name and parents names and social security number, etc. Then she said to come back in two days at 1:30pm.

"To get my passport?" I asked.

She nodded. I left confused. I profile well, but this seemed a little too easy.

Two days later I go back to the Embassy. I still remember what I was wearing: A grey swing coat that I'd bought at Janet's thrift store in Lebanon. Someone ushered me into this little room. I was told to sit in a folding chair, facing a long table. At the table were at least three people, sitting there facing me. A single light bulb hung down from the ceiling. Ok, I made the light bulb part up.

A folding chair
so you can picture the scene

My hands started sweating, obviously.

And these three people started firing questions at me non-stop. Questions like:

"who is your mother's youngest brother?"
"What bank do your parent's bank at?'
"What football team did your high school play at homecoming your senior year?"
"What is the name of the street that intersects the street your parents live on?"
"What is the nearest church to your parents house?"
"What is the town to the west of your hometown?"
"What classes did you take last semester?"
"Where did your father go to college?"
"What was the name of your sixth grade teacher?"

I mean like a hundred questions like this boom boom boom one after the other. I guess I answered the questions. My overarching memory of the whole episode was my attempt to speak amazingly perfect American English. I'm a native American English speaker, so you'd think this would be a no-brainer. But let me tell you about one little hitch that would have been in your giddy-up too if you'd been in my shoes: I had just been in Sweden for many many months speaking Swedish.

This is what happens - instead of saying "umm" or "like" or "so" or any of the other little filler words you stutter mindlessly, you start saying, "liksom" or "joooo" or "typ" or "alltså." 

It was a problem. There I was, desperately trying for my most perfect English ever and occasionally tossing in a "såhär." It was horrifying. And the more I thought about not doing it, the more I did it.

Holy shit.

In the end, they gave me a passport. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I recall.