This morning I brought my camera to work, to take photos of my daily sights for a future blog entry. Little did I know that this would likely be the last frame ever taken by my Nikon D300:
After that photo, I got onto the train and finished reading The Five Love Languages, which was given to me as a wedding gift by my good friend John Straiton. The book had some excellent advice in it, especially relevant because it was six years ago today that my wife and I began dating, though we would not admit to it at the time. It seems that my primary love language is Physical Touch, with Quality Time close behind it. I’m still not completely sure about my wife’s love language, but I am sure if I listen closely enough it will not be too difficult to figure out.
As the train pulled into Gare du Mons, I retrieved my bicycle helmet and gloves from my backpack in order to make room for my camera. I then tucked my pants into my socks so that I would not get my pants caught in the chain of my bicycle. I got off the train, then found and unlocked my bike, and rode off toward work. I saw an interesting view, and quickly noticed: the camera is not around my neck, and it my bag is too light for a camera to be inside it.
I had a moment of panic. Right about here:
After looking in my backpack, I soon realized that I had indeed left my camera on the train. I raced back the other way. I was on a busy one-lane road, so I went up onto the sidewalk, dodging inattentive students on their way to class. I was secretly hoping the train was still there. It was not.
I hurried into the station, found a cashier that spoke some english, and described to her what happened. She made some phone calls, and told me the train attendants would look for it on the train and would call her back. She advised for me to sit down and wait for a few minutes and come back to her.
I sat down and began to question myself.. did the camera actually make it onto the last train? Did I forget it when I switched trains this morning? I sent my wife a very frustrated and worried SMS message. After 15 minutes, I couldn’t wait any longer, and rushed back up to the register. She made another phone call, and said that they were unable to find my camera.
Doh.
The cashier asked me to go to register #5, where I met a kind lady armed with a Lost Item Report (in french). She spoke some English as well, so we filled it out together to the best of our ability. I left the terminal feeling dejected, forgetting my helmet and gloves in the process. When I came back for my helmet a few minutes later, the first cashier saw me and cast a look toward me that looked half scowling and half praying for me to get through the day.
As I rode toward work, I began thinking about my loss. Would Dallas let me buy another camera? Did I want another? I would probably wait until I got back to the US and buy a used Nikon D90 instead. The D300 was too much camera for my abilities anyways. I wondered if my home-owners insurance would cover my loss. I then began thinking about the person who was going to end up with my camera. Petty theft is so common here in Belgium, and who would resist $2000 worth of camera equipment sitting in a seat on the train? I began to hope that whoever got my camera, really did something spectacular with it. That they would move from being a hoodlum to a famous photographer.
After those positive thoughts, my phone began to ring. I was riding on the a poorly maintained road full of gravel and applied the brakes so hard that I quickly locked my rear wheel. I answered the phone “Hello, Thomas”, to no answer. I answered again, which appeared to give the lady on the other end enough time to compose an english sentence: “Hello, We have your camera at the station”.
I was ecstatic, and raced back to Gare du Mons. I wondered if they actually had my camera, or if they found some small Nikon point-and-shoot instead. I was pretty confident that it was my camera. I told myself that if it was my camera, I would get the lady’s name to buy her a thank-you card, and take a photo of her. Once I walked into the terminal, someone who looked like a railway worker in a flourescent orange vest smiled at me and waved me over to the register he stood next to, spoke something in french to me (I understood “photo”), and the lady who filled the forms out with me soon appeared with my camera. “Is this yours?”.. “Yes! Can I take your photo?”. She said “Yes”, but was blushing and quite shy. Here is her photo:
There is a part of me wonders that, had I harbored bad thoughts on whoever would take my camera home, if I would have had it returned to me. Riding back toward work a third time, I was quite paranoid about if I actually had everything with me, and stopped once to check if my camera was really in my backpack this time around. I later heard metal clang on the sidewalk, and checked if my keys were really in my pockets.
I feel very lucky today.
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