Lost Luggage

Written by Stephen Kovash

I got on a jet to Spain. I only got lost once and I didn’t get arrested. I made sixteen new friends and lost my luggage. I also lost my baggage.

Like most of us, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with myself post-pandemic. During normal times, I teach art classes at the Homeless Shelter and organize social justice and art events. In-person, people exhaust me. I need two days to recover from one day around people. I stay home with my dogs and write. And I walk. Usually around the neighborhood, but sometimes I’ll drive to the hills of Southwestern Oklahoma. It’s really flat where I live.  

I thought the pandemic lockdown would be a blessing. I was wrong.

I can’t turn my brain off. Especially when I’m alone. I run scripts in my head. Scripts about what I will say in meetings. Scripts for teaching my next class. Scripts about the conversations I’ll have if I see someone I know. 

The scripts help me focus when I’m in the real world. I’ve always done this.

The lockdown created a script vacuum. To fill the vacuum, my brain started running old scripts. Scripts from my divorce. Scripts from the toxic people in my life. Scripts about something I said. Scripts about something I didn’t say. Scripts about things I should have done. Scripts about scripts. 

I watched too much Netflix. I doom scrolled through social media for hours. I started drinking alone. I had time to write, but the new season of something was streaming.

I started talking to my dogs. “Who’s a good boy?” Their sad eyes spoke to me, but my world was too quiet. 

I still needed to be around people.

The virus evolved. I assumed people did too. The stores opened and airplanes started flying. 

I was comfortable with the silence by then and only went out to teach and buy food. I fed the dogs and wrote sad stories. Most people like happy stories. 

I saw news from someone I knew. She was hosting a writing retreat in the mountains of Northern Spain. Six days of hiking and six evenings of writing. All I had to do was show up. And send a check. 

I’m rarely random, but I am spontaneous. I was going to Spain.

I thought I was in shape, but I trained harder. The highest elevation gain in Oklahoma City is stepping from the street to the curb, so I carried a 40-pound bag of water on my back. My daily walks went from two miles to eight. 

The day came and I left the Prairie. Oklahoma City to Dallas to Madrid to Oviedo. The airports were easy. Customs took 15 minutes, and I wasn’t arrested by the TSA. Soft landings everywhere. I lost my way in the Madrid airport and found myself in a prohibited zone. Just me and three Spanish Cops. They told me to leave. I told them I was lost and complimented their sidearms. Cops love to talk about guns. The Madrid guys were surprised I recognized their pistols. We were friends for life, and they walked me to my gate. 

An hour later I was in Oviedo. I had been running scripts about this meeting for the entire 20 hours in airplanes. I got off the jet plane and found 16 new friends waiting with smiles and hugs. I smiled back. My luggage was there. I didn’t need the scripts.

I knew my training in the Oklahoma Prairies would not be enough. I was right. The altitude left me wheezing and barfing at the end of the first day. I wasn’t alone. I struggled with each step, trying not to fall off the mountain trails. I struggled with my breath going up the mountains and back down. I wasn’t alone. Someone always waited. 

My scripts were becoming shorter, and laser focused. “Watch out for that rock.” “Don’t slip.” “Hang on.” “Don’t fall off the mountain.” “Don’t die.” Each day, we would trek to a new town or hostel. One day we trekked to a cafe that could have been at the very end of the universe. Each evening we would shower and share a meal, discussing what we saw during the day. Then we would write. We were all writing from the body. The old scripts became metaphor.

At the end, we celebrated. And promised to keep in touch until we could do it again. I think that may really happen. 

I flew back to the Prairie. On the way, I spent six unplanned hours in Chicago and the airlines lost my luggage.

I still walk every day. I talk to my trekking friends online. I’ve made a special new friend on the Prairie. The scripts are still there, but I focus on the good ones. Scripts about the short story I’m writing. Scripts about meeting new people. Scripts about going to Ireland. Or Norway. Scripts about not tripping over the curb as I’m crossing the street. 

I got my luggage back in a couple of days, but the scripts were baggage I lost in Spain. Unwanted baggage.