I rolled my giant suitcase off the cruise ship into a Port of Miami corridor, toward the elevator lobby.
A crowd of other cruisers congregated in front of the lone elevator that led downstairs to customs. The crowd fell into a long line, dragging their big bags and tucking their Border Patrol forms into their passports. I would have followed suit. But I saw an escalator.
An escalator without a line.
So in one fist, I held my passport, my floppy beach hat and my purse. I wrapped the other around my giant suitcase’s handle. And at the top of the down escalator, I stepped on, expecting physics or science or magic to require the giant suitcase to trail behind me.
But the suitcase didn’t trail. It tipped, and fell forward, just shy of onto the escalator. In the process, physics or science or magic required my fist to release its grip on the suitcase’s handle. And while I descended toward customs, I watched my giant suitcase — now blocking the entrance to the down escalator — become smaller and smaller and smaller.
Which is when I shouted the only word I quickly concluded to be appropriate upon accidental abandonment of giant suitcase:
As it turns out, it takes a special set of skills to drag a giant suitcase onto a down escalator. A set of skills I don’t possess.
A witness to my plight, the port authority employee at the top of the down escalator pulled on my suitcase and put it upright.
Which is when I pulled the only stunt I quickly concluded to be appropriate upon accidental abandonment of giant suitcase:
An upward climb on a downward-bound escalator.
As it turns out, it takes a special set of skills to run up a down escalator. A set of skills I don’t possess.
And I fell.
And on my hands and knees, I watched my giant suitcase become even smaller.
I still have bruises.
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This post is part of a series of true stories, called “True Story.” Click here to read all the posts in the series.