Maybe I was having too-easy of a packing and preparation process. Things were going a little too smoothly. Perhaps I needed a reality check; a sign that leaving America for six weeks wasn’t actually going to be that simple.

So here’s what happened (the abridged version):

My bags were basically packed and ready to go. Then the dreaded conversation…

“Where’s your passport?”

“I thought I gave it to you; is it in the safe?”

“No, I gave it back to you.”

Hence, the panic.

My parents and I then spent the next two hours searching. Modestly at first, then a bit maniacal. At one point my mom was searching empty shoe boxes in the back of her closet. It was pretty high stress. I started to think about options; what would happen if it was gone for good? Who would I call, and what would I say?!  “Hi, I’m going on the most important trip of my life to date and, uhh, I sort of misplaced the only thing that will allow me into the country.”

That was when I really started to panic, thinking that I ruined this whole opportunity for myself.

So at about 10:00 p.m. (when my dad was driving downtown to check our other car and I was laying on my bedroom floor practicing hypnosis in order to jog my memory) my mom satisfactorily shouted “I found it!” It was in the bag with my assorted medications in the living room. Next to my suitcases. Tears of joy may have been shed.

So, long story short, don’t be a fool with your passport. And nothing goes too smoothly.