I once prided myself for having tear ducts of steel. I was the only kid on my block who could watch Bambi without bawling; Beaches made me snicker. Graduation. Weddings. Break-ups. Disappointments. I endured it all with neither a sigh nor a whimper.
Until, that is, I went to Turkey.
Istanbul had been a destination point on my atlas for ages. After working in Beijing for a year, I finally made it there one summer with loose plans of selling carpets by day and belly dancing at night. My plans changed by fifth day, however, during a visit to the Archaeological Museum. As I gazed at a row of headless statues, my hand happened to brush against the spot on my thigh where I always strapped my money belt. Instead of a reassuring bundle, I felt only bare leg.
My heart stopped. I threw down my backpack, hiked up my ankle-length Guatemalan skirt, and gazed in horror.
The money belt was still there. Its contents were not.
I stumbled about the museum in a state of shock. I had used my passport and American Express card only an hour before and deliberately sealed them both back into the belt. What happened? Did everything somehow fall out? How could I not have noticed? I remembered reading about thieves who tossed powder into tourists’ eyes and robbed them blind in a matter of moments. Did that happen to me?
Panic set in as it dawned on me what I had just lost: money, credit cards, passport, airline ticket, traveler’s cheques, visa. In short, all forms of identity—except my Beijing work permit, which said I was American in Chinese—and all my finances, save for $30 in Turkish lira.
I bolted for the museum’s exit, nearly knocking over a museum guard in the process. “My passport!” I shrieked over my shoulder. I raced through Gulhane Park and the Topkapi Palace grounds, darting in and out of tourist patches, frantically retracing the casual stroll I had taken only minutes before. I was nearing the towering minarets of the Aya Sofya when I spotted a Turkish policeman. I scrambled over.
