Losing My Phone in Lisbon

A few months ago I traveled with a couple of colleagues to explore southern Portugal. We landed in Faro and worked our way up to Lisbon.

Two days before leaving, we had met up with some surf camp friends, and headed out to explore Belem Tower and Jerónimos Monastery.

Having 6 people in our group, we decided to taxi it home, rather than take the rather expensive buses (€1.20 per person).

The day was great, and we were ready to have an even better night.

So we stepped out of the cab and ran up to our Airbnb apartment in the heart of the city. We cracked open a bottle of wine, and I went to take a picture of the amazing city we were living in.

Shit! Where’s my phone?

While running anxiously around the apartment, I knew in the back of my mind that it was in the taxi. My shorts have notoriously small pockets, and even though I routinely check them, I hadn’t this time.

In panic mode, I try to call some taxi companies. I quickly learn that although there are three main taxi companies in Lisbon, the one we took was an independent car, and I’m assured by two taxi drivers that my phone is long gone.

The night continued on, but always on my mind was my phone. I quickly changed all passwords–email Facebook, etc using my friends’ phones. And the next morning went to the police station to file a report.

I asked the Lisbon police if anyone had returned a lost phone. But he didn’t go looking. There was no checking. There was no thinking.

Laughter was the only thing I heard. Here I was without the item that stored lots of private information and had all of my vacation pictures, and all I could do was be laughed at by the Lisbon police officer who found it insane that I would even ask if a phone was returned to them.

So we quickly completed the paperwork, and while doing so, was mocked for living in Sweden.

“Oh Sweden, yes. That’s a country with problems. You just work all day. You never take the time to get out and enjoy life. That’s what makes Portugal so nice. We work a little, we go to the beach, we relax.”

I left, and the next day flew back home to Sweden, prepared to turn in the paperwork to my insurance company and try to get my hands on a new phone.

Then a message popped-up on my computer screen. Saying something to the effect of XXX-XXX-XXXX phone number is trying to access your phone.

I had thought for sure that my phone was long gone. That it was sold off into the black market. Or at least that the battery had died. But no, my Apple computer was somehow linked to my phone and warning me that someone was trying to get into my phone.

I immediately jumped on my computer to run the “find my iphone” program. Boom! There it was. Clear as day. And not moving—for hours. This must be where the taxi driver lived, I thought.

I quickly saved the number and texted a Portuguese friend. A friend that I had just made on the trip. A man who was more than accommodating at calling the number.

A woman answered.

“Do you have my phone,” my friend said.

“Um, yes,” a lady said hesitantly. “Someone was trying to sell me this phone, and I was trying to get my sim card to work.”

“Who is trying to sell you the phone?”

“Ummm, I’ll have to call you back.”

Then the Find My iphone program “dies”. He clearly had shut off my phone and I could no longer track him. Fuck! “Now my phone is gone forever,” I thought. “So close to getting it back”.

Surprisingly, she did call my friend back. Turns out the taxi driver was trying to sell the phone, but not to anyone–to his own sister. Yes, thanks to family (dis)loyalty, I was able to find my phone and get the phone number of the taxi driver.

My friend called him and arranged to pick it up. Being Portugal, this process was delayed for 48 hours, and I had my doubts that it would be returned. Even though the taxi driver confesses to have it, and is clearly a bit nervous, he still finds no reason to turn the phone in quickly.

The taxi driver decides it’s better to give it to the police and escape culpability. But that doesn’t work. Not because he’ll get in trouble. But rather because the Lisbon police are lazy.

“It’s better if you just return the phone to the owner, instead of to us,” the Police say. “Otherwise we’d have to fill out paperwork.”

So my friend meets the taxi driver the following day and picks up my phone. What an ordeal that’s finally ended. He promptly sends me my last picture I took.

Another friend traveling around Portugal picks it up and flies it back home to Sweden.

When I get it in my hands, I feel grateful; I feel relieved. But most importantly, I feel happy that I made new friends.

Post-script: the taxi driver changed the language and deleted my contacts and pictures. Luckily, he wasn’t so bright, and I could retrieve the pictures from the trash can and only had to add back people’s names, as their numbers were still saved.