Expiration Isn't Everything: Part 2

Well we're back with Part 2 of the story. If somehow you missed part one, or need a refresher, fear not, we have it here. Want to know how it ends up? Want to know if they finally make it to their trip? Well without further ado, here's the end to our guest blog from Simone Passarelli...
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...Barbara walked back over to us with her supervisor and I could see the disappointment in her eyes, but we knew she had truly tested every possible loophole to send us on our Bahamian getaway. The supervisor spoke directly to Sarah. Clearly, my strong desire to never have a responsibility again must have been visible on my face.

“We called your connecting flight and they agree there’s no way we can get you to the Bahamas without a passport. But I would try calling this number,” he handed her a piece of paper. “This is the Emergency Passport Office. Just call them to make an appointment. They open at seven a.m. and you can usually get a passport within the day. Would you like us to reschedule your flight for the same time tomorrow?” An immediate wave of relief swept over me. I felt thankful for NYC, where apparently you can get anything in a day.

“Yes, thank you, that would be great,” Sarah said. The two of us walked outside, towing our wheeled luggage to the city bus stop since we had already paid fifty bucks for the town car that morning.

“This doesn’t mean you still didn’t fuck up. We can hang around the city for a bit, and hopefully I’ll get my money back from the hotel for tonight.” Actually, Sarah really impressed me with her ability to maintain her cool throughout the situation. She was over the exploding phase now that she knew we would probably (hopefully) make it to the Bahamas.

After dropping off our luggage at my sister’s apartment we headed straight for the Emergency Passport Office, but we couldn’t get through over the phone to schedule an appointment. Climbing the stairs out of the subway at six-thirty a.m., we could already tell which building was the passport office by the block-long line and armed security officials. And as I walked up to the line I felt twice as selfish as before.

Sarah and I were the only white people there; we were surrounded by people of every race speaking dozens of different languages, many with children or elders. Several of them must have been waiting in line since before six. I imagined the tragic stories behind why all these people needed a passport that day: a funeral abroad, a dying relative, a man who came to New York City without his family just so he could send money home to support them and he finds out his daughter has been hurt. As I surveyed the area around me the stories in my mind grew more elaborate, and I looked for just one person whose expression implied that their “stupid sister forgot her stupid passport and now we’re a day late for our vacation in the Bahamas,” but no, I didn’t see anything like that. I felt like I should give up my place in line because no matter how guilty I felt before, Sarah and I both realized that this was no big deal and we were really lucky to have our health and each other, and especially a possible vacation in the future.

“Sarah, we definitely have the most minor case here,” I said to her.

“Yeah, I know. I kind of feel bad,” she said, glancing around us. “Why don’t you go find somewhere to get your picture taken and I’ll hold our spot in line.”

After I got my pictures we were able to make an appointment for later in the day, meaning we could go back to Sarah’s apartment and finally sleep. Thank God. When we arrived back to the Emergency Passport Office we waited three hours after our actual appointment time for a three-minute interview about why I needed a passport so quickly. I felt guilty confessing, “I have a flight tomorrow for a vacation in the Bahamas and I didn’t realize my passport was expired.”

After that, we got our will-call slip to pick up my new passport, expected to be ready three hours later.

The waiting room was painfully hot, and various foreign languages buzzed around us. Dozens of rows of chairs lined the room, filled with people who had been waiting for hours just like us. The only other Caucasians were also foreigners. I watched as one woman, wearing a brightly colored sari and holding her toddler’s hand, walked up to the counter and tryed to explain her situation to the teller behind glass, but the language barrier clearly created an issue. Her frustration was visible, and in the end it seemed as if there was nothing to be done because she just had to walk away. To pass the time, I played Brick Breaker on Sarah’s Blackberry. She had stopped making comments about how I “owe her” because we were a day late for our plans to get drunk off of fruity slushy drinks on the beach in front of the turquoise ocean. It was hard not to feel like a snob sitting in this waiting room.

Finally the number on my ticket showed up on one of those screens, like the ones they have at the DMV. Flipping through the pages of my beautiful blue new passport, I felt extremely lucky. I held in my hands the proof of my American citizenship and my constitutional rights, my ability to go anywhere in the world, and the tangible evidence that I would be boarding a plane to the Bahamas in the morning. It was crisp and felt to me like a precious little book of gold, with the complexity of its official holograms and colored lines, and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Turning around to face the people still waiting, I wondered whether I should even have this reward. Why should I be rewarded with a trip to the Bahamas despite my sheer stupidity, while others had serious emergencies? Even though I messed up and am still a space-shot, some things in life are easy to fix. So it is possible to get a passport in New York City in about ten hours, but I’m not really sure if I deserved it.
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Hope you enjoyed the story. Sarah requested that it was posted. Maybe it was just catharsis for her, but it sure provided an amazing story and some enjoyable reading. An hopefully it results in an A...