It’s International Women’s Day and that seems a good time to give a shoutout to a person named Petra. She saved me from myself. I met her yesterday and may never see
again. I don’t even know her last name. I believe she is from Mexico, but I am not certain. She is small and stooped, probably in her 50s, and since we’re living in a time when immigrants, especially Spanish-speaking immigrants, are so often demonized for befouling our great American gene pool, I wanted to share a story.
It begins with a wallet. My wallet, which went missing yesterday. If this has happened to you,
you know the stricken feeling that comes with it. (If it hasn’t happened to you, please tell me your secret.) I have a lot of experience in this area. You can ask my wife. This is how it typically unfolds: I am about to leave for somewhere, pull on a pair of pants (I always like to wear them when I go out) and realize my wallet isn’t where it should be, in the right, rear pocket. I look in the other usual places it might be – computer bag, zippered jacket pocket, car compartment, and don’t find it anywhere. Minutes pass and panic builds, triggering a cycle that includes retracing my steps, reconstructing my day, checking the exact same spot 25 times, calling credit-card companies, beating myself up, then going on TSA.gov to see if there is any way I can get on an airplane without a driver’s license. (There is, but that’s another post.)
My latest wallet misadventure began mid-afternoon on Thursday. We are in San Diego to watch the U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team play for the hemispheric championship in a tournament called the W Gold Cup. Our daughter, Samantha, is on the U.S. team. She had a couple of free hours and wanted to go to La Jolla for lunch, but my wallet was nowhere to be found. I turned our hotel room upside down. I checked the lost and found at the front desk, and every other place we had been. I tried to reach someone at Snapdragon Stadium, where we had been the night before, without success. I gave my room number to a very nice hotel associate, who assured me they would keep an eye out, and would alert the housekeeping staff.
We had a lovely lunch overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
I got out of paying, which was the only positive thing about the situation. When we returned to the hotel, I looked in the same places I had looked before. Nothing. Now I was almost certain it wasn’t going to turn up and that I’d have to cancel the cards, call my health-insurance provider and get a replacement driver’s license. I went back to the room. The housekeeper had serviced it while we were out. We had fresh towels, and freshly made beds. Everything was spiffy. I walked toward the desk to send a few emails from my laptop. And then I saw this:
I looked up the English translation:
Here I leave your wallet I found it in the trash can.
Petra
I’ve lost my wallet in some remarkable places, but never in the bottom of a trash can. It must’ve fallen off the counter the can was next to. I went out into the hall and saw a housekeeping cart. It was about 5:45 PM. Petra had been cleaning rooms for eight hours. She was finishing up in a bathroom when I knocked on the door.
“Senora?” I said.
Petra’s English is limited and my Spanish is even more limited. A conversation wasn’t going to happen, but I wanted to express my gratitude.
“Gracias for finding my wallet,” I said, clasping my hands and futilely trying to use hand gestures to simulate a wallet. I gave her a nice tip. “I think you need to give her more. Think about all the trouble she spared you because of her honesty,” said my wife, who has an annoying habit of being right. I made sure to tell the hotel manager about Petra’s honesty. Next time I see her, I am going to give her another tip, a bigger one. It’s the least I can do for the woman who bailed me out by finding mi cartera, and gave me an unexpected way to celebrate International Women’s Day.
I hope he has a Petra in his life. :)
What a lovely story! It made me smile for several reasons, the least of which is my husband lost a credit card tonight.