Every story about being locked out starts the same way. I know what I’m talking about — I’m an expert. It has happened to me more times than I can count on both my hands and yours.
It always goes like this:
You get yourself ready to leave the house like a functioning adult. Windows closed, water taps checked, gas off, no candles lit. You take your phone, find the keys, and place them neatly next to your shoes while you put them on.
You call the dog, put the collar on, grab the leash, step outside, close the door and… snap.
Your brain wakes up — finally — just in time to say:
“Where are your keys, dummy?!”
This happens every single time. The smart arse with permanent residence in your head only wakes up after it’s too late, as if it had been patiently waiting for this exact glitch so it can dramatically switch into problem-solving mode. Acting like a hero.
Shooooooooooooooooot.
Realisation hits me right in the forehead.
“What the heck?! Couldn’t you wake up a bit sooner? Are you up there just to exist, or could you maybe try… THINKING?”
I wanted to shout at my own brain, but I suspected my neighbours or innocent passers-by wouldn’t appreciate the performance. Instead of helping me out, they’d probably call a mental clinic — and instead of being locked out of my house, I’d end up locked inside a madhouse.
So I swallowed the rage, calmed myself down, and went for a walk with the dog. After all, it was only 6 a.m. on a Monday, and at that point, I had limited life options.
I assumed there would be no work today.
Huraaay.
Always look on the bright side, right?
The inventory of poor life choices
I had plenty of time to assess the situation, and it quickly became clear that this wasn’t just about the keys.
I had no keys, no phone, no money — and I didn’t even know my landlady’s name, let alone her contact details.
“This is going to be fun…” my brain echoed helpfully.
Two hours passed, and by then the dog was exhausted. The squishy, cauliflower-looking brain sitting patiently in the upper part of my body had managed to come up with exactly three ideas:
- Get into the flat from the outside. I live on the 7th floor — so, no.
- Call the landlady. Genius. No phone. No details.
- Call a locksmith. Again — no phone, no money.
Honestly, sometimes it’s difficult to live with myself 24/7.
Desperate solutions and accidental detectives
Then came the lightbulb moment.
I remembered that, in the nearby apartment block, there was a maintenance guy. We lived on a small island — Malta — so surely he’d know my landlady.
I went to find him, feeling like Sherlock Holmes uncovering a mystery.
“Ahhh… the short lady with blonde curly hair?” he mused, visibly turning the memory wheels in his head.
“Yes, yes, that’s her,” I said, already imagining myself being rescued by a magical fairy on a white horse.
“Nah. Don’t know her name.”
I fell straight off the fantasy cloud.
“But I know she has a nuts shop in Mosta.”
The first clue.
Strangers, snacks, and suspicious hope
On my way back, I noticed a guy leaving my building who looked familiar.
I approached him. In situations like this, shame and shyness don’t get a vote.
“Sorry, do you work at Pink Panda?”
“Yes. You’re on the second floor too, right?”
Exactly. I explained my situation, publicly blaming my malfunctioning brain and quietly hoping — just in case — that he might share the same landlady.
He didn’t.
“Go to the second floor, door number four. My wife is at home. Maybe she can help.”
First, she fed me. It was almost 9 a.m., and my stomach made sure everyone in the room knew I hadn’t eaten.
Why do body parts always betray you at the worst possible moment? First the brain, then the stomach.
Dingo Nuts and other unlikely saviours
With a full belly, my brain finally rebooted and decided to do the job it had been hired for.
The detective work continued. We Googled for a nuts shop in Mosta, praying they had a website.
They did.
They even had a phone number.
Anna — the come-to-the-rescue girl — handed me her phone.
“Hello, Dingo Nuts, how can I help you?”
A man’s voice.
Shit. That’s not HER.
“Hi, I’m looking for the lady who owns the shop and rents out an apartment in Sliema?”
I paused. The man on the other end must have thought I was nuts.
“Hold on.”
My heart started racing.
“Yes? Who’s that?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Sorry to bother you — do you by any chance rent an apartment in Sliema?” I asked, giving the full address.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, worry instantly audible.
“I’m your tenant,” I said, “and I locked myself out. Do you happen to have a spare key?”
Silence. Imagine being her…
In the meantime, I died a hundred deaths imagining locksmiths, bills, and breaking through a door with two locks — a security feature I’d once been very proud of.
“Okay,” she said at last. “I can’t come now, but give me a couple of hours.”
I was going to be rescued.
Maybe?!
The sound of salvation
She arrived around 1 p.m. with a massive bag of keys. No time to judge. No time to judge, I reminded myself.
She tried them one by one.
Do you know the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day?
The click of the right key fitting into the lock.
Hallelujah.
I was home — dog included — safe and sound.
The keys and my phone were staring at me from the exact place where I’d left them. If objects could talk, they’d say, “Where have you been?”
The poor dog threw herself onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. I don’t even want to imagine what she thought of the day. I’m lucky dogs don’t talk.
Home at last (and almost fired)
I checked my phone.
Fifteen missed calls.
Shit. Work. Uuuups.
I called back immediately. They were already contacting HR, preparing to check my address, and even ready to call the police. I called just in time to cancel the whole operation.
Such a drama. But so sweet, I thought.
Since then, I’ve worn my keys around my neck like a school kid. No shame.
Until I moved to another country, forgot about this incident and — you guessed it — locked myself out again. In Spain.
Want more Abroadien chaos where things definitely don’t go as planned? 🍹✈️ From wrong turns to weird strangers, “Lost and Found (or how to lose your husband)” is just the tip of the iceberg. Dive into Life in Translation and discover a world of hilariously real moments, cultural mishaps, and stories that make you laugh, cringe, and maybe even question your own travel choices.