Paradise Lost by Kat Merrigan

A coworker suggested we attend a seminar. The company would cover all travel and expenses. As I appreciate any opportunity to be out-of-office, I was intrigued. I asked where it was being held. “Hawaii,” he said. I believe he continued speaking. I heard nothing as I was too busy requesting another drink with extra pineapple from my imaginary poolside waiter.

My associate offered to make the arrangements. Big mistake. The next day I learned he had misread the schedule. We would notbe going to sunny Hawaii. Instead, our destination was Virginia. I have nothing against the state, but let’s face it, Virginia is notHawaii, especially in February. Before I could provide an excuse to extricate myself from this debacle, he told me the tickets were non-refundable, and we’d be charged an exorbitant cancellation fee for the seminar.

My poolside waiter abruptly snatched my cocktail and pointed me toward the exit.

The flight was at an ungodly hour, but it was uneventful. The true adventure began at baggage claim. We stood patiently waiting as the carousel began unloading the plane’s cargo. My coworker grabbed his bag and went to get our rental car. I stayed behind, fully trusting that my luggage and I would join him shortly.

Fifteen minutes later, the now empty carousel came to a full stop, letting out a sound that somewhat resembled a heavy sigh. I couldn’t blame it. It must be exhausting reuniting hundreds of passengers with their bags. Perhaps the noise signified a sense of accomplishment at a job well done.

There was only one problem. One passenger was left standing there befuddled, hopelessly luggage-less. I approached a nearby counter agent to ask for help. After many keystrokes on her console, it was discovered that my bag would not be meeting me anytime soon.

It had been sent to Hawaii!

“Excuse me? Sorry, it’s really early, and I haven’t had nearly enough caffeine. Where did you say my bag is?”

“It’s on Flight 710 non-stop to Hawaii, ma’am.”

I wasn’t sure what frustrated me more in that moment—the fact that my luggage was headed to my dream destination or that I’d just been called ma’am by someone I gauged to be about my age.

I spied my coworker and quickly signaled to him.

“Hey, what’s the hold-up?” he asked.

I inhaled deeply. “Well, it appears my bag will not be joining us. It’s halfway to paradise. While I’m stuck here halfway to nowhere!” Quickly catching myself, I turned to the agent, “I’m sorry. You have a lovely airport here. Honestly. It’s clean. And I really like your uniforms. Very flattering.”

“Next!” she snapped, having already long forgotten my very existence.

My colleague pulled me aside. “Well, at least you have your carry-on,” he suggested, trying to ease tensions. What the poor man couldn’t possibly know was that my tote contained only my essentials: hair products, makeup, toiletries, vitamins, pajamas, and one change of underwear (for emergencies).

This emperor had no clothes. I informed him we needed to visit a store immediately, unless he felt comfortable attending the event alongside someone in a polar bear onesie. He did not.

That all-expense-paid trip cost me five hundred dollars, plus three sleepless nights, and a pharmacy shelf of antacids, as I anxiously awaited my luggage’s return. When it finally did arrive, the sticker on it simply read, “Greetings from Paradise” with a beautiful picture of Maui and a frosty pineapple drink on it.