When asked where the safest place in the world is, some might suggest the airport security queue. Vigilantly monitored, it sends me into autopilot: finishing my water, putting my luggage on the tray, taking out my electronics, shuffling through the body scanner and collecting my belongings. But as of August last year, I’m no longer so nonchalant.
My family, boyfriend and I had spent a carefree two weeks on holiday in Portugal. I was already mourning the end of summer – and my return to medical school – when we arrived at Porto airport for our flight home. I had just stepped away from the security queue and was repacking my bag when I realised something I had put on the scanner belt was missing: my iPad. Panicked, I demanded that everyone comb through their luggage, but it was nowhere to be found. Four years of medical school notes, as well as reams of unfinished writing from my year as a journalist, had vanished.
