Baggage blunder

My box was lost somewhere between SFO and frankfurt. My backpack, containing most of my clothes, arrived on the baggage claim belt in a ridiculously timely manner. And then I waited...and waited...

After 10 minutes I wandered to the Baggage Services desk.

"My luggage has been lost" I said matter-of-factly. I had been traveling for 19 hours, I wasn't in the mood to pussyfoot around.

"What does it look like" said the drab-looking German man.

"Like a box. It's a box. It's lost. It never came onto the carousel."

"Oh," said Mr. Drab, "Thats different. Thats a box. That will come out in the bulky pickup, over there." He pointed to the far corner of the baggage claim lobby.

I looked down at the top of the counter, which displayed a laminated diagram of various luggage characteristics, with bar codes next to them. If you lost a fabric duffel bag with wheels, they would scan 'duffel bag' 'fabric' and 'wheels.' When I was fourteen I took a flight to Australia. My suitcase was a monstrosity, giant and plastic. I had spray-painted it bright pink and stenciled stars and giraffes on the side. When it was lost the airport workers had a hell of a time trying to figure out what barcodes to scan.

I headed over to bulky pickup, and mentioned to the giant German in tight blue overalls my lost luggage, ahem, excuse me, my lost box.

"Nothing's come out yet, wait a minute" he told me.

As I waited giant malformed packages came sliding out on the conveyor belt. An army of clowns could have fit in some of these packages. Meanwhile I waited for my little, ordinary-sized box. And then I waited.

Mr. Drab didn't look particularly surprised to see me again.
"My box never came."

He handed me a slip of paper with the phone number of the airport circled in yellow highlighter. "Call this number tomorrow. We will deliver the box once it is found."

I went through customs, very discouraged. My pajamas were in that box. And the BBQ sauce! What a travesty!

I met my friend Fabian on the other side of customs. "My box was lost" I told him. "Got lost somewhere between San Francisco, Krakow, and here."





Fabian snaps a photo as I am on the phone with my dad, lamenting my lost luggage.



"Ah, the Polish probably stole it" Fabian said, joking. "It's ok, later I will give them a proper German phone call. We will get your box!"

Two days later I decided that the airport was being decidedly un-German about returning my box. They would tell me the time it would arrive, and so we'd wait, and nothing would come.

Finally I received my box, tattered and battered.