Dispatches From the Departures Gate: No Passport, No Cry

“We’ll let you into Jamaica,” said the head of security at Kingston International Airport, sliding my worthless passport back towards me beneath the glass window. “But it’s on you to find your own way out.” 

It was 3 a.m. on a hot, sticky night in the Caribbean in March 2016—a simpler time. I was a 29-year-old corporate drone traveling to Jamaica with two friends to celebrate surviving the polar vortex that overtook Manhattan that winter. I’d managed to get on the JetBlue flight after convincing the befuddled customs agent at JFK to allow me to board the plane, despite my lack of an up-to-date passport: “Don’t worry, I know a guy,” I told them confidently.  

My passport was over a year expired; my driver’s license, too. I hadn’t even noticed that my passport had expired until roughly three hours prior to my scheduled flight. Still, I hadn’t been lying. I did know a guy: a charming U.S. Embassy representative in Kingston, who, when I called in a panic before my flight, assured me that my lack of paperwork wouldn’t impede my imminent travel plans. All I had to do, according to him, was show up at the embassy upon arrival, and receive a notarized travel letter to return home: “Don’t worry, mon. We can’t wait to welcome you to Jamaica.”

I remembered his words precisely; a beacon of hope delivered in musical, lilting Jamaican Patois over the phone. But his name? Not so much. It was the first of many unforced errors (well, aside from actually renewing my passport on time) on this entirely avoidable foray into international illegality. But the embassy wouldn’t open for hours, so I waited on a wooden bench outside Arrivals at Kingston’s Norman Manley International Airport, watching the sunrise and pondering my fate. 

When I arrived at the embassy at 7:15 a.m. sharp, there was already a line of hundreds snaking off the front entrance. I was expecting this—the mystery man had told me to form a separate queue for international visitors. Alas, I didn’t feel too comfortable cutting ahead of a line monitored by armed guards (not to mention general line etiquette), so I filed to the back. 

And, not for the first or last time on this adventure, I started sharing the tale of my own idiocy with my fellow queuers. How I’d believed I could just arrive and depart with a permission slip. How I was currently undocumented on the island (in fact, there was no record of me ever departing New York). In true Jamaican spirit, the crowd was with me.

“Hey, she has no papers here, she’s stuck,” the man beside me yelled ahead. “And she’s not Jamaican. Let her up to the front.” A wave of momentum propelled me forward amid encouraging laughter from my fellow early-morning risers: “Good luck, girl, I’ve been trying to get a passport here for years.”

When I arrived at the entrance, the government official was kind, yet (understandably) confused. Her questions were reasonable: Who did I speak to on the phone? What did he say about a letter? My answers were, I soon realized, less reasonable, because apparently, seeing a notary required an appointment. No appointments were available for another three weeks—a time frame that was not feasible for my bank account nor my then-employer. If it’s not yet exceedingly clear, I was not yet a travel writer at this point in my life. This was also the first time I’d ever run into passport issues—though certainly not my last.

The official’s advice? Go back to the front desk at JetBlue, and beg. Returning to the Jamaica airport alongside my two friends who’d loyally followed me on this fruitless journey, and my indefatigable taxi driver, Phillip Linton, I despondently watched the Blue Mountains roll by outside my window.

Arriving at the departure gate, I conveyed my plight to the front desk operator. “You’re leaving just now?” he asked, incredulous. “But you just arrived!”

I explained that the U.S. and Jamaican governments were quite intent on my leaving as soon as possible—the longer my stay, the more suspicious it became, despite the fact that this friendly agent seemed supremely unbothered. My friends had helpfully pointed out that if I stayed in the country for, say, my intended four-night trip, it could seem like I was engaging in illegal activities, not just partaking in our planned agenda, which consisted primarily of sunbathing at a beach in Montego Bay and drinking an abundance of rum cocktails.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” the airport agent told me. “You come back here, we call a number, we let you go.” Would he be working on Monday when I returned? No. Would any coworker whom he knew personally be working on Monday? Again, no.

A more nervous, rule-abiding traveler might have sprinted to the next flight back to New York. That, however, has never been my modus operandi. 

Reader, I trusted him. And here, perhaps, is where I should come clean as a specific type of traveler—a type B traveler, to be exact. (Maybe even type D, if such a category exists.) I tend to believe the universe will work things out in my favor—a mindset that is both delusional and occasionally rewarded. And this trip was an example of the latter. Because, after a long weekend in Jamaica, I returned to Kingston and was—mercifully—allowed to depart after clearance from an international hotline. When I apologized upon my departure at Kingston, the gate agent said, “Don’t worry about it, we’re only human. Sometimes we move too fast.” 

I spent the flight feeling relieved I was headed home, unconcerned that there was no proof I’d ever left the country. The two customs agents at JFK were slightly less empathetic to my predicament, but were nevertheless amused when they sent me to a holding area to meet the Department of Homeland Security. 

“You traveled to a third-world country without a valid passport?” the stone-faced agent demanded. I contemplated correcting him about the third-world country remark, but realized I wasn’t exactly in the best position to argue about just about anything. “Here, call this number for a new one before you travel again. Next thing I know, I’ll be getting a phone call from Russia, that you just found yourself over there next.” 

He let me go with a slight smile. I haven’t made it to Russia yet, but it certainly wasn’t my last brush with border patrol.

Customs Confessions

In the years since that fateful morning in Jamaica, I’ve forged a career as a travel writer, and what was once a tendency toward youthful indiscretion morphed into a professional nightmare. I subsequently ran into passport issues in at least three more countries on separate occasions, and along the way encountered four customs desks, the Department of Homeland Security, the Argentinian Police Department, and so much more. In my career, I’ve visited over 100 countries, and I’ve misplaced and lost my passport several times along the way—in a taxi, in my hotel room (unimaginative), and more. When I left my passport in the Caribbean, my friends in Providenciales mailed it back to me the very next day, which was extremely lucky—and before I sought to replace it.

I’ve had my passport returned to me at the boarding gate after leaving it at an airport bar in Istanbul. And I’ve left my passport behind in a Qatari airport hotel room, where I’d spent the night and forgot it in a rush to make my 4 a.m. boarding time. Luckily, the departure agent let me race back to the hotel’s front desk. [Editor’s Note: The first time I met Katie, on a trip to the Serengeti, she did, in fact—albeit briefly—leave her passport at a checkpoint in the Tanzania airport. This, apparently, does not even register in the grand scheme of her passport tribulations.] 

All of this, of course, is cause for alarm. But it was losing my passport in Ushuaia that truly forced me to change my ways. I was in the southernmost city on the planet (my next stop was Antarctica), and found myself literally at the end of the world, with my career viability hanging by a thread. I was notified by the passport replacement agency that one more shenanigan and I’d be placed on a government watch list. After that, I’d be issued a temporary passport, with limited validity of up to 12 months. How could I be a travel writer if I couldn’t travel?

Since my Antarctica situation, I’ve adopted several methods to avoid passport issues in international territories. After all, there are certain lessons that can only be learned the hard way—certain measures of ingenuity you must acquire, and shortcuts you must take, that can only be discovered under duress (or utter desperation). Learning how to adapt and survive when you find yourself abroad without a passport is one of them. Accidents do happen, despite our best efforts, so consider this a how-to guide for the worst-case scenario. I also have to acknowledge my own privilege—as an American, and as a white person—in imparting this wisdom, particularly considering the current geopolitical situation. The levels of difficulty may vary by country and circumstance. That said, some of my advice below can serve as a roadmap for navigating every traveler’s nightmare scenario of misplacing your documents overseas.

In that spirit, I share the below not in the hopes that you try this at home or abroad, but so you may learn from my mistakes and take some of this hard-earned wisdom with you on your next international flight. Some of these lessons are applicable for upright, passport-carrying citizens wherever they may travel, while others are for moments when you find yourself in dire straits. Read on for tips on what to do when you’re facing a consular emergency.

No Passport Protocol

Aside from a positive attitude at the airport (I’m a Buddhist in this regard—we make our lives heaven or hell at check-in), see below for my hard-earned practical tips for navigating the world when your paperwork fails you, and how to avoid that happening in the first place. I know you’re wondering—why take tips from me? Well, after all this, I still have Global Entry. 

Embrace ego death at the departure gate.

Be nice. Be bashful. Prostrate yourself to a higher power—your fate lives and dies by the agent behind the glass. Saying “but I’m a travel writer” gets me nowhere; seeing the indignant rage in front of me is enough to kill that tactic before I even try it. It doesn’t matter who you are outside the airport; within this liminal space, you are a serf. Embrace and accept your peasant status. 

Invest in a passport case with an AirTag.

A passport case is your best friend. If you purchase one with a built-in AirTag, you can always track its location on your phone. Also, keep business cards in the inside pockets, and not just to hand out when traipsing around the world. When I had my passport shipped to me from the Virgin Islands (where I’d left it in a beachside tent, of course), it vanished in a USPS mailroom, only to be miraculously discovered by a worker sorting through discarded piles. Because my card was tucked inside, that good Samaritan was able to email me immediately. The passport returned, covered in grime, but functional. 

The passport card is the best $30 you’ll ever spend. 

Technically, this document only facilitates travel to Canada and Mexico, as well as sea crossing to the Caribbean. But when your passport is missing in action, it becomes an unlikely savior. While traveling home from Antarctica, I realized my passport had vanished somewhere between the South Pole and Buenos Aires. When I pleaded my case to the Argentinian police, my passport card was enough government-backed collateral for me to board the plane home. This leads to a secondary rule—keep your driver’s license current. The more official-looking documentation you have to present to the authorities, the better.

Refrain from reporting your passport stolen until you’ve tried all other avenues.

My run-in with the cops brings me to my next golden rule: Unless you are 100 percent certain your passport is well and truly gone, exercise caution when reporting your passport stolen. I’ve lost mine on three continents, and each time, it’s found its way back to me. 

There are two reasons why you should hold back from claiming theft, unless you are completely sure you’re the victim of a crime. The first is that once you report it stolen, that document is dead—immediately and permanently invalidated (a lesson I learned the hard way 10 hours before boarding a flight to Anguilla). And the second is that, beyond the paperwork, it’s simply bad etiquette to accuse a local community when you’ve likely left it in a taxi or the hotel safe (at least if you’re anything like me). Taking the screeching “it was stolen” path rarely endears you to the people whose country you’re visiting and who control your ability to return home. I’ve seen friends and colleagues make this mistake, but my advice is that when in doubt, just own it. Appeal to your shared humanity—accidents happen!

Keep a photo of your passport in your phone.

Simple, but effective: Take a photo of your passport information page and passport number and save it in your phone. Even better, memorize the number—you’d be surprised how much this helps in a calamity. For example, I was in Turks and Caicos, sorting through my tote bag in Howard Hamilton International Airport, when I realized—a mere 40 minutes before my flight—that my passport was missing. (Shocking, I know.) Luckily, my stunned expression and frantic rummaging didn’t go unnoticed by the kind airport security. “When was the last time you saw it?” the lady at customs asked me. “It must have fallen out of my bag,” I rambled, “or perhaps it’s trapped in my villa somewhere.” Did I know my passport number? Yes, I did, and I had a photo of the document ready on my phone. After a relatively inconsequential 30-minute hold-up, I was boarding the plane. Bonus tip: Take photos of visas and vaccine cards, too. Better yet, get your shots at Passport Health; they can easily reprint your yellow cards if they vanish abroad (speaking from experience, of course).

Sometimes, it’s worth it to pay a premium.

Lastly, what to do when the passport is gone, and you’ve returned home? Avoid city center passport offices like the plague. I once spent 10 fruitless hours in a downtown Manhattan line, only to drive to Connecticut the next morning and get it done in two. And, if your situation is truly dire, pay the premium for an expediting service. Help U Travel at 315 Madison Avenue is my lifeline—they once secured a replacement for me within 72 hours of my flight to India. May the odds be ever in your favor.