It began like any other day: woke up in Amsterdam, flight was delayed by an hour, slammed my leg into the security table at the airport and screamed in pain, worked the flight back to New York, elderly couple asked if I was Dutch, man in first class couldn’t fit his Louis Vuitton back into the overhead bin and wouldn’t let me touch it because it was too nice for my grimy working paws, sprinted to the customs desk after landing in New York, rushed out of the airport and managed to grab the last bus to my crash pad.
Got a phone call while on the bus informing me that I left my passport at the customs desk.
I might as well have left my brain or something because, who does that??
So, I went to my crashpad and dropped off my 18million pounds of luggage, changed clothes and hopped on the bus back to the airport. And reminded myself how much I hate New York City during rush hour, which is basically every hour of every day.
I arrived at the customs area and was held hostage at the entrance by a police officer with a thick Long Island accent, while the other officers wandered around customs looking for my passport.
Because they LOST MY PASSPORT.
At this point I was practically on the verge of tears because I had already been awake for 24 hours and knew that my 6 am report time the next day was approaching quickly, and spending the night in the customs office is hardly my idea of fun but not an unimaginable reality for this new-hire flight attendant.
Lo and behold, after about an hour of phone calls and searching, a police officer walks up to me and hands me the precious blue passport.
I hugged him.
He told me to go buy a lottery ticket and remember him when I win a million dollars.
By this point I had already missed the last bus home, so I called a cab and waited for it on the curb outside the airport. When he picked me up, I plopped myself down in the back seat and proceeded to inform him about the events of the day because I just needed someone to LISTEN and he happened the be the poor unfortunate soul stuck in the car with me for thirty minutes.
His response to my tale of misery and misfortune?
“Put your big girl panties on, this is New York.”