The San Francisco Airport Debacle

SFO will forever be remembered as the airport with crazy bathroom stalkers. Well, one stalker in particular. Let me back up.

The car service picked me up at 5:50 am. I wore yoga pants and a pink long-sleeve shirt. My flight left O'Hare at 7:30 am and landed on time in San Francisco at 10:10 am. I walked toward baggage claim and entered the first women's bathroom I saw so that I could change into work clothes. All the handicapped stalls were taken. I crammed into a small stall and started the dance of changing in a confined and unsterilized space.

Suddenly I hear knocking on my door.

"Someone's in here," I explain. (Obviously someone's in here, the door's closed)
"Did I leave my passport in there" she asks, voice agitated and shaking.
"No, I don't see a passport in here," I explain after looking around (though I didn't have to look, I knew there wasn't anything when I first entered the stall).
"It has to be--I left it in there," she demanded.
"You can look when I come out, but it's not in here," I try to explain calmly. That's when all hell broke loose. First she pounds on the door,
"Let me in, let me in!" she cried.
"I'll be out in a second, just hold on." (Calm down lady). The pounding continues and I can feel the other bathroom patrons staring at my stall. No, wait, I'm not imagining the staring. The woman is standing on tip toe, outside my door looking down on me.
"Excuse me!" I shout. "I told you I'll be out in just a second, I'm changing!" She continues to pound on the door and stare over my stall door at me.
"Ma'am, you're scaring me," I say point blank. By this time I have my good jeans on and I decide my long-sleeve shirt doesn't need changing. (This woman is crazed). I can barley squeeze out of the door before she barges past me and my carry-ons. With a look that asks, "What did you do with my passport?" she says to me,
"But it was right there? Where is it?"
"I don't know where your passport is, it wasn't there when I went in I promise."
I almost offer to let her search my bags but think better of it. Why would I take her passport? She leaves the bathroom abruptly. When I leave the bathroom, she's pacing outside by security.
"What am I going to do, what am I going to do?" she half asks me, though I think she was talking to herself.
"Maybe you left it at security?" I offer.
"No, I left it in your bathroom stall," she accuses. (That's it, I'm done with this).
"Well, good luck" I say and I took the escalators down to the calm of baggage claim. I walk outside, surprised by the California warmth. I've never been so happy to climb into a taxi and head to work.