Where's Bob?

I'm shattered when I lose my husband's ashes in the move.

In addition to shipping 25 boxes of belongings to Portugal, I carried six suitcases—at a cost of $200 each—on the plane when I moved.

Among the items I brought were things that Americans living in Portugal had suggested I bring that are difficult or expensive to acquire. I brought baggies filled with ibuprofen and acetaminophen.

These over-the-counter drugs that are cheap and readily available, in bottles of 500 or 1,000, virtually everywhere in the U.S. But theuy are only available in the pharmacy in Portugal and can’t be purchased in large quantities. They’re sealed in individual plastic bubbles and sold at a premium in small boxes of 12.

Just to be “safe,” I also brought nearly a year’s worth of my regular supplements, about 100 pain patches for my aching back, some spices uncommon in Portugal (such as dill), and vegan protein powder.

To reduce weight and volume, I dumped them all out of their original containers into gallon-sized baggies.

Though my family spread most of my husband’s ashes in a park before I left the U.S., I decided to bring a few with me. I planned to walk the El Camino de Santiago, a famous pilgrimage with routes through Portugal that end at a famous Spanish cathedral, and I wanted to spread some of his ashes along the way.

I purchased additional used suitcases from thrift shops for the trip and found large colorful plastic tags on Amazon to replace the standard luggage tags so I could quickly differentiate mine from all the others as they circled the carousel.

Genius.

I purchased these tags from Amazon for my bags. Who else could possibly have done the same thing?

When I landed in Lisbon, I dragged all my overweight suitcases from the carousel without help, loaded them on two carts and pushed them to the curb, where I met the transport van I’d hired to take me to Alcobaça.

As I began unpacking at my condo, I discovered that one of the bags was full of men’s clothing. It had the same colorful Amazon tag that I’d purchased for my bags – the one I’d thought was so unique that nobody else on the same flight would possibly have used.

Dumb.

I’d even placed electronic Air Tags into each bag to make sure I could track them.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t checked them when I loaded the suitcases, depending only on the plastic tags on the handles to ID them. At home, I pinged my lost bag on my phone and realized it was still at the airport.

Two days later I paid the driver to take me back to Lisbon to switch the bags. After some frantic searching, I located the area for lost luggage and explained to the attendant what had happened.

He gave me a tongue lashing.

“Why did you wait so long to return it?” he said. “This man has been without his suitcase for two days because of you!”

I explained about the identical tags, and that I hadn’t realized it was the wrong bag until the day before when I began unpacking. I didn’t have a car and I lived 90 minutes away. I had to arrange transportation, I said.

After all, it had only been two days.

The irritated man harumphed and descended into the bowels of the storage area to look for my suitcase. Twenty minutes later, he emerged with my bag.

No harm, no foul.

At home I unloaded the errant bag, full of all my baggies of meds, supplements and protein powder. I stashed the supplements in the bathroom, and I stored the protein power in the kitchen cabinet.

But my husband’s ashes were nowhere to be found. I searched through the side pockets in the six suitcases, but they were missing.

Obviously, that awful man at the airport had gone through the last bag, decided the ashes were some illegal substance and had thrown them out. Had he thought they were drugs?

Even thought I’d researched transporting cremains into the country and found that it was legal, he’d thrown them out. Possibly to punish me for taking the wrong bag.

I was angry and devastated.

My “husband” was in a trash bin somewhere in Lisbon. I cried for two days. How could this have happened? What kind of person allows their husband to wind up in the garbage?

I’d failed widowhood.

Gradually I moved on. After all, the ashes weren’t really my husband. They were only some minerals from his bones. Still, it haunted me.

I settled in my new home. Every morning I made my smoothy for breakfast, adding fresh fruit. As my supply of vegan powder diminished, I researched online and was delighted to discover that I could order similar protein powder in Europe.

Down to the last baggie of powder, I pulled it down from my kitchen shelf one morning, opened it and began scooping it into the blender.

But it didn’t look like the other vanilla powder I’d been using. It was grittier, with gray specks, unlike the fine, buff-colored powder in the other gallon bags.

Then it hit me.

“Bob?!?” I exclaimed out loud.

I spent the next 10 minutes laughing.

I had the feeling that my husband, who’d loved pranks and teasing me, had staged this final scene.

Bob’s ashes looked remarkably similar to my protein powder, but coarser and a bit darker in color.

It would have been just like him to trick me into mixing him into my smoothie. A last gotcha.

I’ve had to postpone—and probably cancel—my El Camino pilgrimage due to an ongoing foot problem, so I don’t know where I’ll spread his last ashes. Perhaps the ocean.

Or maybe, as an homage to his roots in the Virginia mountains, I’ll take them with me when I explore Portugal’s highlands. I may wait until our children visit so that they can participate.

For now, he “resides” in a drawer in my bedroom, awaiting the perfect time and his final resting place.

Well played, Bob. Well played.