After driving through the streets of Manhattan for a while, the taxi finally came to a stop and said that was the first address I gave him. I looked around and felt like I was in the worst possible neighborhood; but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. I asked the driver to wait for me while I check out the hotel.

I walked into the building that did not seem like a hotel at all, and that’s because it wasn’t. What it turned out to be was what we, Egyptians, like to call “banseyon,” a boarding house. I walked into what looked like my grandma’s apartment; unmatched rugs and sofas everywhere, with the ambiance of an Ismail Yaseen movie. There was a bored-looking gentleman sitting in a kiosk-type reception. “For one night, it will be $111, and you have to share the bathroom with the entire floor.” Hmm, no. I’m willing to compromise on many things, but sharing the bathroom is not one of them, especially not with six other rooms. No sir, thank you. Good day. “Just so you know, since you don’t have an ID on you, most hotels won’t let you in.” Oh. That minor detail. Forgot about that. Still, not gonna happen. Moving on.

I hopped back into the cab and went to the second address, secretly cursing Hamada and Essam for sending me to sketchland for a “hotel.” We drove to the second place, which, as I learned in the morning was in Queens. I walked upstairs, told the front desk guy my situation and he was understanding and gave me a decent price when he found out I was Egyptian since he was Tunisian.

I finally made it to my room, which was around the same size or smaller than a matchbox. But it was clean, and I had my own bathroom, so who cares. I fell into deep sleep to make up for all the ridiculousness I’ve already been through and dreamt of a new day when all my troubles will be solved.

My dreams were interrupted by a 3am phone call from my mother whom I had forgotten to call. “WHERE ARE YOU?!” “Uhhh, LA.” Yes, I was a grown woman and I lied to my mother about my whereabouts because, hey, she can’t really help me, so let her sleep in peace.

I got up at 9am and headed to the Egyptian Consulate in New York’s, as soon as I got out of the cab, I saw the Egyptian flag, flying proudly on the building. “Ahhhhh, I’m home,” I thought to myself. I went upstairs, and was greeted by a white man, who freaked me out when he started speaking formal Arabic and I tried not to laugh as I had flashbacks of the stereotypical impersonation of Zionists in Raafat El Hagaan.  I told him what I was there for and his answer “Yeah, I’m not sure we can help you” came down and crushed my dreams. “Well, can I speak to the consul?” “He’s not here yet. Let me send you to someone else.”

I walked into Mr. Mahmoud’s office and felt like I was back in Mogamma El Tahrir; same brown-suited, giant-mustached, smug-looking Egyptian employee you see at any government office. “Good morning,” I said with a big smile and explained to him my situation. “Oh, you think we’re gonna help you? Ha. What do you think we’re gonna do? Issue you a new passport? Yeah that’s not gonna happen.”

I don’t think words can describe how I felt at the moment. I decided to keep it together and insist that I speak with the consul. “He’s not here, he’ll be here in 10 minutes. Go wait outside.”

So I did. Ten minutes, 20, 40, an hour: Nothing. Did they offer me any consolation, help or even water? Absolutely not. I was suffering from my cold in the corner and none of them thought of offering me anything. And that’s when I completely lost it; all the optimism that I had in me was depleted. All the sadness about how poorly I was being treated, how unimportant I felt as an Egyptian citizen and how I truly felt alone all came together and I just started sobbing; out loud. I did not care at that point. Mr. Mahmoud walked by and saw me sobbing: Nothing. Mr. White Man heard me, since he was a few feet away from me: Nothing. It was like I didn’t exist at all.

After about 20 minutes of crying, I decided to do the one thing I hate doing the most: pull some strings. That is one of the main things I hated about living in Egypt. I wasn’t willing to dwell on that thought at the time and right away called my sister who completely freaked out, since mom had told her I was safe and sound in LA, and I asked her to call one of mom’s friends, who was a pretty powerful figure in the diplomatic system back home.

Mom’s friend called me immediately. “Put anyone on the phone, this is not acceptable.” So I went to Mr. Mahmoud and gave him the phone. He talked to her for two minutes and then, magically, the consul emerged from his office. Homeboy had been sitting in there the whole time, literally watching TV, eating biscuits and drinking tea.

The treatment flipped 180 degrees. I was offered breakfast, beverages, a shoulder to cry on; you name it. To cut a very long story short, within two hours, I had a new passport in hand; just like that. This made me even more depressed considering that if I did not have that connection none of that would’ve happened. But in the meantime, I was just glad that I had some form of ID. I was going to worry about my student visa later.

I decided to stretch it a little further, and asked him to find me a same-day flight to go back to LA, since I had already missed my flight. “That’s impossible. It’s January second and it’s the craziest time of the year.” “Make it happen,” was my intentionally-smug response. And he did.

I went back to the hotel, got my bags and went to the airport. I called Hamada and Essam to thank them for their help and as I sat down to eat for the first time in a while, I got a phone call from a phone number with a Los Angeles area code. “Nobody knows I’m back, that’s odd.” I answered and it was the office of international students at my university. Someone had found my passport! They looked into it, saw my student visa with the university’s name on it and called the office. It had apparently fallen out of my bag on my trek inside the airport and the nice man who found it did not want it to fall into the wrong hands, since it’s a Middle Eastern passport. That quickly restored my faith in humanity.

I safely made it back to LA, got my old passport (with the visa) in the mail and sent the new passport back to the consulate. They shredded it, and that was the end of that.

I’m still depressed about my value as an Egyptian citizen though.