I arrived in San Jose on a Wednesday night at 10pm. My goal was to take a taxi back to Ray’s empty house, and start my time of relaxation. But first, I had to wait for my luggage. Out of my 4 arrivals in Costa Rica, only twice have I had to wait for luggage. This was time #2.
After a good 30 minutes of waiting by the baggage claim and zoning out while looking at bags, I come to my senses and realize that there is only one bag left on the luggage belt. “Finally, my bag came,” I sigh.
So I pull it off the belt and look at the big yellow sticker on the flight tag. “Preferred customer?” I ask myself. “I’m not a preferred customer . . .”
The bag was perfectly mine; the same weird boxy shape, the same black color, the same brand . . . but it didn’t have my small piece of blue tape on the top. “That’s okay, it probably just fell off,” I think to myself.
So I do what any sane man would do next, I reach for the nametag, which is covered by a black sleeve. “Will Hasley,” it should read . . .
But no. Instead, I see “Eduardo Silvera.” That’s not me! I toss the bag back onto the luggage belt, thanking the Lord that I actually checked the nametag before I took off with the bag.
“I’ll just wait for my bag, then.” And that’s when the hiccup came: there were no more bags on the belt. Just that one, which belonged to Mr. Silvera. That one that happened to be exactly like my rather distinctive suitcase, a rare site at baggage claims . . . or so I thought. “Lord, help me to get my bag, some way or another,” I pray.
Of course, the thought had already hit me as soon as I threw the bag back onto the belt: “what if Eduardo took my bag? What if he didn’t check the nametag? Oh no . . .”
Then I pull out my Costa Rican cell phone, which I was only able to charge in the States because I happened upon one of my mother’s 1980s Nokia chargers (okay, maybe not 80s, but definitely old school), and I call the number on Eduardo’s nametag. Not working.
I try a different prefix, and “Yes! It’s ringing . . . please Lord.” A Spanish-speaker answers. After a nice little convo, I get him to agree to call his dad who has just arrived from the States. He takes my phone number and my name, and when I’m about to hang up, he asks, “Hey Will, you don’t speak English, do you?”
Wow, that would’ve been helpful a good 5 minutes ago. But hey, no point in counting lost time, so I explain everything again in English. “Okay, that’s what I thought you said,” he confirms (a lil’ hooray for my rushed Spanish), “but I wasn’t sure. I’ll call my dad and then I’ll call you right back.”
I go over to the airport’s baggage claim services and start explaining my situation. The two employees are helpful, and I can tell that this definitely isn’t their first rodeo in the bag-switcheroo category. I’m pleased. Then I get a phone call.
“Will, my dad is standing outside the airport with your bag, he’s waiting for you,” says the friendly, English-speaking son on the phone.
“Thank you, Lord.”
And boy was Mr. Ed apologetic . . .
