Distributed to Travel

The Time I Forgot My Passport and Ended Up in an Italian Police Station

My second-year university finals had just finished. A few days later, I was sat in a dimly lit police station inside Milan’s airport.

Milan, Switzerland, Cannes and Monaco. That was the plan. And it all seemed like it was going to fall apart before it had even begun.

But let me take it from the top.

European flights are often dirt cheap and considered to be domestic flights. My flight from London to Milan was no different. Unlike a ‘usual’ long-haul international flight that you’ve dished out for, you’re not allowed to carry much luggage on board. Your carry-on has to be small enough to meet their requirements — those planes aren’t exactly A380’s.

Every time I had travelled internationally before that, I had always stored my passport inside my carry-on. I never had any issues bringing it onto the plane so I never thought to do otherwise.

Until now.

The day of the trip arrived. And I was buzzing with excitement. As I walked towards the plane, I was stopped by airline personnel who had said my carry-on was too big to take inside and that I had to hand it over to them to be taken along with the check-in baggage instead.

I didn’t think twice about it when I probably should have — ten times.

I don’t remember the flight lasting for more than two hours at best. And just as the plane had started its descent, it finally hit me — my passport was in that bag. “Oh, Shit!” would be putting it mildly.

Once we had made our way down the plane’s steps, I headed straight for a man in a high visibility jacket who, since he was wearing a high visibility jacket, probably knew what he was doing. You can imagine how I had felt once he told me that “this is a police issue now kid.”

And if you can’t, think dread, anxiety and lots of poo.

It was only when I walked into the airport and saw my friends clear immigration without a hitch, whilst I waited at the side, was when I realised how we take something as simple as clearing immigration for granted.

Trust me, you don’t want to be the person waiting at the side — unless you like being mistaken for someone who belongs on the cover of Weird Magazine.

The next, and only, option I had was to speak to the immigration officer. I do believe that she probably thought I was the biggest idiot she had ever come across. But maybe that’s because I probably was. I mean, what sort of Humpty Dumpty would leave their passport in their check-in luggage?

Oh, right. Nevermind.

I was asked to wait at the side again. I began to develop a special kind of hatred for that side. The next 15–20 minutes felt like the equivalent in hours. I watched person after person hand in their passports and glide through with the greatest of ease. What showoffs.

Whilst I was being reminded about how passport-less I was, her shift had ended. I then went to speak to the man who replaced her. This interaction provided me with the pleasure of explaining how I managed to pull off this incredible feat for the third time. He then walked me about 50 feet to the left to what seemed like an airport police station. I mean, asking whether it was or not wasn’t exactly on my priority list but everyone was surely dressed the part.

I was sat down in a rather dull and gloomy U-shaped waiting room — the kind you see in the movies. Dimly lit tube lights overhead, dark red upholstery and a beige tiled floor. I sat there in utter silence. I felt like the last thing I had to do was tick them off. I saw officers walk in and out and one who was continually working on his desk. Remember him, he’s important.

I was fairly calm by this point. They had heard my story and, by leaving me in a room with a colour scheme that screamed an utter lack of imagination, had seemed to take action. But then I did the very thing that you aren’t really supposed to do when you think you’ve got a problem. I googled the situation. And guess Google came up with?

I was going to be deported.

Now, this is certainly not the worst thing that can happen in the world. But, my family and I live in London. My citizenship is Pakistani. The idea of them sending me ‘back home’ to Pakistan to a house that was locked wasn’t exactly confidence-inspiring.

And just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, a heated conversation had erupted between an Arab man who was just brought in and the officers standing opposite. There was nothing particularly circumspect about him. Grey hoodie, short curly hair, brown skin. But what did get my attention was how the officers were relentlessly searching through his bag. And lo and behold, the endless possible explanations for what this man was brought in for and what kind of person he was began to occupy my mind.

He was asked to sit down beside me. “Wait, what if this guy was some kind of criminal? Do they think I’m in the same category?”

Yes, in this troublesome time my brain had no problems in stereotyping another man just as brown as me.

I mean, this is the stuff we see in the movies, isn’t it? The innocent guy gets mistaken as an accomplice or even worse, as the bad guy himself.

The clock kept ticking. I began to wrestle with the idea of getting up and speaking to the officer who continued to sit and work at his desk. He seemed fairly busy. And I didn’t want to piss him off. What if he had a rough morning and immediately decided, as Google had so kindly pointed out, that I should be deported?

Whilst I struggled to make up my mind, the Arab man was fairly stressed. He didn’t look at anything but the floor most of the time. Perhaps he too was awaiting the judgement of his fate.

With every passing minute, the desire to not be stuck there grew stronger. After saying every prayer that came to my mind, I got up and walked to the officer’s desk. You know those walks that end up feeling like slow-motion walks? Yeah, it was like that. And just as I had said “umm, excuse me”, he looked up, nodded and told me to follow him.

He walked me out the door, past the immigration checkpoint, to the baggage-claim area. “Now, which bag is yours?” Damn, he didn’t ask a single question. Was my little faux pas now known to every officer in the building? Perhaps. It’s not like someone pulls off a blunder of this magnitude every day. But this possibility of widespread embarrassment wasn’t exactly on my priority list. I just wanted to get out.

Another officer then joined and stood behind as I scanned the baggage carousals.

“Shit, nothing.”

Tens of bags flowed past, none of which was mine. I had this nagging feeling that, with each passing bag, the officers were losing their patience. I didn’t want to know what would happen once they did.

The next few seconds felt like an eternity. And then, out of the blue, and to my disbelief, I saw it. That damned trolley that held my ticket to freedom — my passport. In that moment I felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.

So naturally, I ran for it.

The carousel was about 15–20 metres away. There was no way I was going to let this bag slip through. Could the officers have thought I was making a run for it? Absolutely. But I hoped to get to my bag before they could decide to act on any such assumptions.

And then, euphoria. Never had I been so proud to show someone an identification document. The officers looked it over, stamped it, and told me to go.

Unless you have an uncontrollable desire to find yourself in a law enforcement waiting room, with a desperately monotonous colour scheme, next to a man who was brought in for who knows what, don’t forget your bloody passport.