a lost luggage miracle

This, as a fellow volunteer recently commented, is the kind of story that makes people believe in God. Also paisley.

Speaking of God and miracles, did you know that in Islam, Jesus' first miracle was that he was a talking baby? That's right. Full sentences, in the manger. Pretty sweet if you ask me.

But I digress. Coming home from my American Christmas vacation involved a horrible 12 hours in Charles De Gaulle followed by a groggy morning flight to Casablanca that included exactly none of its passengers' luggage. I was promised upon arrival that my luggage, once located, would be sent to the Agadir airport (the closest airline office to my village). They took my Moroccan cell phone information and promised to call me as soon as they knew anything.

After two weeks, though, I hadn't heard a word. According to Air France's online tracking system, my bag was still lost, and all three phone numbers I was given at the luggage desk were out of service. Emails to two different addresses, one in France and one in Morocco, elicited no response.

I'd almost given up on ever seeing my luggage again: no American gifts for my host family, no lemon pepper for my friend Megan, no stationery for pretty letters, no more favorite recipe book, no planner (oh sad day), no more booklet of transcribed traditional Berber songs, no more favorite tshirt with clever Moroccan Arabic pun, no more amazingly thick Smartwool socks that my dad found heaven knows where, no 2009 wall calendars, no clotted cream, no Berber textbook. I packed a lot of good stuff into that suitcase. It was sad. There was a sense of loss.

BUT THEN

Oh just wait.

You will NEVER GUESS what happened.

Seriously, try to guess.

I bet the following is not what you guessed.

I received the following text message from my mother:

ANNY!!! READ!!! Got a phone call from an American who saw your luggage in Agadir airport! It's in "special" back room for "unclaimed luggage"...

It went on, but basically instructed me to email this good Samaritan for directions to the special back room where my luggage lay patiently waiting for me, and get to Agadir as quickly as possible, you know, before they "threw it out or something." It was like a giddy celebrity sighting, only way better.

My schedule was a bit busy that day (that whole inauguration thing...which, by the way, I watched in a gorgeous mountaintop Berber village surrounded by the snowy-misty peaks of the High Atlas) but as soon as I could, I jetted down to the Agadir airport and found the secret luggage room...I walked in, saw my luggage, picked it up, and walked out. Amazing. Incredible. I was on cloud nine.

Turns out at some point someone had gone through my bag, taking only a few chocolate truffles, some hand and face cream, and my new toothbrush. I would like to say here and now, to whomever went through my luggage: all I have to say is, you could have learned some incredible pied noir recipes, or a southern Berber dialect, and you chose scented lotion and dental hygiene?? Please. Lamest thief EVER. Face cream? You could have had CLOTTED CREAM.

Anyhow, the point is, the extraordinary kindness shown by a total stranger who copied down the information on my luggage tag and called my parents has restored my faith in all sorts of things. This whole journey started with stolen luggage - en route to my first Peace Corps orientation, someone rifled through my stuff and took my camera and all my favorite CDs, among other things - and so it's doubly reassuring and fitting and uplifting to have the same story repeat itself but with a much, much happier ending as I returned to Morocco for my final year of service. Many thanks and, as we say, Tbark Allah 3lik (God's blessings upon you...and while He's at it may God protect you from the evil eye) to my luggage-good-Samaritan-guardian angel! I'll never look at a room of forgotten suitcases the same way again.

One final ironic twist: the attention-grabbing luggage tag on my suitcase was a last-minute addition - a gag gift, in fact, from Christmas. It was a pink and black Vera Bradley luggage tag that my mom gave me as a joke stocking stuffer. Because let's face it...I'm not exactly a Vera Bradley kind of girl. My preferred luggage is more along the lines of a Black Diamond backpack, or a Moroccan yellow leather satchel that looks like something Rousseau would tote around, or an classically designed valise that begs to travel by train, and I keep my makeup in a case I bought in a place called the Sleepy Poet Stuff antique mall. Nothing against the stuff, it's just not my (ouch bad pun alert) bag. It's a long-standing joke between my mother and me, dating back to high school days, when I, in some rare moment of needing-to-fit-in-and-have-the-latest-trend weakness, wondered aloud if maybe I should get my own Vera Bradley pattern and start collecting matching luggage. Fortunately, my mom just kept marching me to Sleepy Poet Stuff instead. But now I feel like I have this sort of reluctant, new-found respect for Vera Bradley's hot pink paislies. I guess you can take the girl out of Charlotte, but you can't take the Charlotte out of the girl...