The Story of the Stolen Backpack
It’s a gorgeous Spring morning in London. The jet lag has finally passed and the reality of my extraordinary new life is beginning to sink in. Before setting out to explore my last day in the city [or so I thought], I stow away my backpack in the luggage hold room, and set out with my Canadian counterpart to enjoy the boasting sights of Primrose Hill.
Another glorious day is added to my memory bank. We share one last cup of tea before I begin to wander on to my next destination.
I get buzzed into the luggage storage room to collect my bag and head off when… wait a second? I can’t see my spanking new Kathmandu 65L anywhere in the stuffy room. Where is it? I swear I put it in here?? I must be going mad. There’s instant panic.
The Spanish receptionist looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Are you sure you left your bag in there?”
You know that feeling when you reach into your pocket to grab your phone only to realise it isn’t there, and your stomach drops? It’s that feeling. But imagine that it’s not your phone. It’s a brand new computer. And every single item of clothing you own. And some bank cards, photocopies of all your personal information, photos of your family, your shoes, your undies, your EVERYTHING?! Oh. And then pretend you're 16,587 kilometres from home.
Welcome to day FIVE of my European adventure…
No, it was no mistake. My darling bag wasn’t scooped up by accident, nor did it “slip” down the garbage shoot.
As the CCTV later confirmed, a very ordinary looking gentleman strolled on in to the hostel, smooth-talked his way into the luggage room, swiped up the first bag he saw, and went on his merry way.
Gosh, aren’t I lucky he picked mine?!?!
After many tears, phone calls and police station visits, I lay awake the night of the runaway bag in the same clothes I’d had on for days, with my phone and passport (my only remaining possessions) tucked under my pillow. Was this something that could even happen in real life??
That night I Googled “bag stolen from hostel luggage hold” to seek some comfort in the misfortune of other strangers.
Do you know how many results popped up? Two. Fantastic. I’m one of THREE.
In hindsight, I’ve got to say, I’m pretty glad it all happened. Well, I’m maybe like 72% glad it happened. Because it was really terrible. BUT… my bag was just full of things. Replaceable things. Unlike my poor bag, I was perfectly safe and sound. And being stranded in London (my most favourite place in. the. world.) for an extra week wasn’t too bad at all!
Plus, the whole tale is THE BEST anecdote to tell literally anyone – you instantly become more exciting once you’ve had a bag stolen somewhere foreign.
My dear bag – if you are out there, I just wanted to say I’m so sorry we never got to finish what we started together. I can only wish you’ve had a good journey of your own.
As for you, Mr Bag-Snatcher, I owe you a thank you. If not for you, I wouldn’t have had the exact sequencing of events that made up the following greatest 9 months of my life.
Oh, and you suck.