A tale of lost luggage...

[chrisk]

Was reading a post on GQ about the chances of getting lost luggage back, and it sparked the urge to tell a tale, but since I couldn’t really contribute much to the factual questions at issue over there, I thought I’d start a thread over here. Please add your own ToLL here… I bet a lot of dopers have them!

Okay… this was my summer vacation last year. Took a week and a half off work, and among other things I was going to spend three nights and four days in beautiful Kingston, Ontario. Got the train tickets using my reward miles off of my mastercard, made a reservation at the Holiday inn on the waterfront, was very psyched up for the trip. Made arrangements with an old friend from school that we’d meet up and have lunch in toronto before I got on my train.

Now, I was travelling with two fairly heavy bags, as is my custom. A suitcase full of clothes and toiletries and so on, and another bag with a laptop computer and all my other electronic toys. I assumed that I’d stuff the bags into a locker and then go to meet my friend.

Once I got off the bus in toronto, went off to the far end of the train station where the lockers are. Except they’re not there. Looked around a little longer then went to ask at the information desk. “Oh, they took out the lockers. Were scared that some wacko or terrorist would put a bomb into one of them. You might try checking your bags with the train.”

So I went over in the direction he’d indicated, through a few winding corridors in the train station, and finally arrived at a luggage counter. I tried to think of what to ask the guy, to make sure that there wouldn’t be any problems. “Now, if I check my bags, I don’t get them back until I get to kingston, right?” yes. Took my palmpilot out of my gear bag so that I’d have something to read on the train, and took the little folder with the train tickets. “Okay… I’d like to check both of these, for the 3:15 train to kingston.” He nodded, took my money, took the bags, gave me a slip to sign, and tore off a stub and handed it to me.

Went off to lunch with my friend, had a great time, waited in line for the train, read all the way up to kingston. When I got off, I carefully found the luggage counter and presented my stub.

“Oh, they don’t bring any luggage on that train, only on the train that leaves toronto at 7:00 in the evening!!”

What was more, the guy started asking me where my second claim check was for my second piece of luggage, and I started to get very worried. What if the guy had noticed my laptop carrying case and decided to try making off with it? I left my name and the name of the hotel with the guy at the station and took the local bus down to the waterfront - the reservation confirmation printout was in my suitcase, but I had the credit card I’d made the reservation with in my wallet.

Turned out to be no problem getting a room at the hotel, I worried and fretted, explored a little bit of the city, got some essentials at the drug store just in case there was a problem. Probably called up to the station to check, and to confirm that I had checked into the hotel, though I don’t honestly remember on that point. Watched some tv.

Phone rang. “Yes, mister Kenworthy, we have your bags right here. Yes, two of them.”

I was so relieved I called a cab and headed off for the train station right away… the cab driver was a nice guy… turned off the meter while I ran inside the station and collected my luggage.

The next morning I had a fun boat cruise through the thousand islands, did a little sightseeing and bought some souvenirs around noon, then started to feel under the weather and went back to the hotel. That afternoon, all the lights went out – the big northeast blackout of 2003 had struck, but that’s another story, of course!!

[DaToad]

Back in October of 1978 I was working in Iran. The revolution against the Shah was in progress so I decided to take a vacation for a few weeks to see how things were going to go. I went to Augsburg, Germany to visit a friend. While I was there, I bought a new pair of skis and new poles and boots. When I was ready to return to Iran, I loaded my suitcase with good German beer, and a nice Parma Ham.

When I got off the plane, no suitcase and no skis. One of the Iranian guys I worked with had a family member high up in Iranian Customs and they did a thorough search, to no avail. Fortunately, I had the good sense to have insured my ski equipment and Lufthansa paid me for it.

Fast forward to 1982. I’m working for Lockheed, in S. California and I get a call from the US Customs office in Los Angeles. They tell me that they believe they have some property that belongs to me, but cannot tell me about it over the phone, and to come to the office. I can’t imagine what it could be and had long forgotten about the stuff lost 4 years earlier in Iran.

When I get to the customs office, they ask me if I have ever owned a brown Samsonite suitcase. Hasn’t everyone? “Why yes, as a matter of fact I do own one. It is at home in my closet.” “Have you ever lost a brown Samsonite suitcase?” “Well, now that you mention it, I lost one in Iran back in 1978.” “Could you describe it and it’s contents?” “Sure, it was brown. In it was a pair Lange ski boots, two pairs of Levi’s, a blue ski sweater, about a dozen beers and a Parma Ham wrapped in waxed cheese cloth. They bring out a brown Samsonite suitcase that looked like it fell out of the plane at 20,000 feet. The handle was gone, the leg stands gone, the latches broken off, the hinges had been pried apart, and it is duct-taped closed. They ask me to cut the tape and check the contents. Everything is there except the beer. They ask me if there was anything else. I tell them yeah, a separate package with my blue and silver Fischer skis and my black and silver Look ski poles. They bring out the, now beat-up, Lufthansa shipping container. I open it and, amazingly, they are still brand spanking new. Nary a scratch.

I ask about the insurance having been paid and they tell me there is nothing about that from Lufthansa, so it’s all mine – except I can’t bring the ham into the country. I argue that, because it’s wrapped in wax, it is still good. They hang the things in caves for years to cure them, so no problem. No, I can’t bring it in because it’s a meat. I unwrap it and me and the customs inspectors, who break out some cheese and crackers, eat most of it. I tell them that they can have the rest of it, but they say they can’t accept it as it’s contraband, and I have to throw it away. They give me a box and I put my boots, Levi’s and sweater in it, toss the remains of the ham into the remains of the suitcase and throw it into the dumpster.

I still have the skis.