The Foreign Service Journal, January 2011

M y husband is gone again, this time to an undisclosed Eastern European country. We arrange to visit him one week- end. Another couple wants to come along and are even willing to baby-sit our two kids one night. Are they kid- ding? “Come right along,” I say. The weekend over, we leave my husband and are soon well on our way home. Rummaging inside my purse I suddenly realize our pass- ports are in the hotel, two hours be- hind us. “Oh no,” I say. “S---! S---, s---, s---!” My 4-year-old in the back seat mimics me. “S---, s---, s---,” he says. I ignore him. “Our passports,” I wail. The wife of the couple, who is driving, exits the highway. Experienced travelers, the couple are calm. I’m not sure what to do: cry, swear some more? What I want to do is throw myself on the ground and tear out my hair. They say we have to go back. All I am thinking of is how I have outrageously inconven- ienced these people. We are 10 miles from the border. I have an idea. I say we risk it. I say we see what happens. Maybe they will let us through. The couple is doubtful. I persist. It’s been a two-hour challenge keeping the boys happy and feeding them every 10 minutes. I cannot tell another version of “Peter Pan.” I don’t think I have it in me. So I con- vince the couple that we should keep going. We drive until we reach the border. The guard looks at their passports, then wonders where ours are. “Oh yeah, ours. Well, the thing is…” I say in my best offhand manner, “they are in the hotel room.” “Well then,” he says, “I can’t let you leave the country. You have to go back to the hotel.” There is noth- ing he can do. After an awkward pause, he says, “Look, I’ll call my su- pervisor.” He says something in an indecipherable language into his phone, and then repeats, “You have to go back to the hotel.” We contemplate this awful de- cree. Then he offers, “You can talk to my boss if you want, but…” and shakes his head sorrowfully. I ask, “What’s his name?” “Odon,” he says. “Let’s go,” I say to the male half of the couple. I jump out of the car. “Where do we find Odon?” We walk inside the building and begin knocking on doors and open- ing doors that say “Stop! Do not enter!” until, a few moments later, Odon appears. He’s a tall man with a kind face. There’s always hope in kind faces. I explain what happened. I don’t want to appear demanding or too eager. I’m just a mother who’s tired, who made a mistake, who’s being honest, and who needs a break. I guess he sees that, because he looks down at me and says, “I’ll make a call.” Moments later he says we can go through. But first he pretends to zip his lips and lock them with a key. We get into the car, leave that country and prepare to enter the next. We don’t say anything to the guard when he approaches our car, but hand him the only two passports we have. Does he even notice there are three other people in the back seat? I’m not sure, but the bar of the gate goes up, and we are free to leave. As we sail back down the highway toward home, I think of my dad, who used to say: “Never take no for an an- swer. Always speak to the supervisor.” Remember: our little secret. ■ Regina Landor is a Foreign Service spouse on her first tour in Belgrade with her husband, a USAID officer, and two sons. I’m just a mother who’s tired, who made a mistake, who’s being honest, and who needs a break. 68 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J A N U A R Y 2 0 1 1 R EFLECTIONS Our Little Secret B Y R EGINA L ANDOR