the dark side of "track your package" culture

how tracking technology and stories like the tabi thief influence our expectations for finding lost items

The chicken arrives. At first glance, I just know it will taste good. The skin is roasted, all glossy and dark. On the side: salsa with tomatillo seeds intact, fuchsia red onion pickles, pebbly black beans.

It was the perfect summer dinner. One of the first true hot days in the Bay Area where you don’t need a sweater in the evening. I felt fully present. I licked tiny grains of tamarind crystals off the candy stick in my drink and admired the architectural peculiarity of this fire station-turned-restaurant. Some places are close to home but make you feel far away, like you’re on vacation and nothing is of real consequence.

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Little did I know, this would be my last supper with my newly-acquired vintage prada sunglasses.

By newly-acquired, I mean literally it was *the same day* they arrived in my Japanese ebay order I’d waited a month for. I loved the way they fit my face, the shape slightly resembling the childlike scowl of a Yoshitomo Nara girl. At $67, they felt like a steal. I initially got inspired to look for vintage green sunglasses because I liked the Bonnie Clyde Babys (*affiliate link disclosure), but wanted more arch in the lens shape.

Tragically, the vintage Pradas were in my earthly possession for less than 24 hours. I didn’t realize I’d lost them until the next morning, when I grabbed my bag to grab my car keys to move my car for street sweeping. Nothing feels worse than the sinking realization from I think I lost something to I know I lost something.

I paced around the driveway, turned all my bags upside down, inspected the weeds by the sidewalk. Nothing. Despite the theatrics of checking my bag again, did I really check?, maybe just ONE more time, I knew deep down they were left at the restaurant. I clung to the absolute certainty of photographic evidence that I had my sunglasses at the restaurant, and then I didn’t. Fuck!!!

My gut flooded with the unique strain of dread of losing something one-of-a-kind in a public-ish place where many hands and eyes may have come in contact with my beloved sunglasses. I lamented that I could not just replace them easy peasy. The best and worst thing about vintage is that money can’t solve your lost and found problem.

That’s what stung most. The idea of trying to find another pair was so annoying, infuriating even. I told myself no one would think to steal them because they didn’t look expensive, they didn’t have a giant logo or anything.

I called the restaurant as soon as they opened. When they said they hadn’t seen anything but would call me if they did, I knew the chances of recovering my sunglasses just went down 80%.

But I simply could not accept that they were gone.

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With each day that passed, the lost sunglasses consumed me.

I obsessively checked my phone notifications, praying for a call or text from a random 510 area code number that would say they found my sunglasses.

I thought about driving to the restaurant and asking if I could check the dining area myself. But only let myself imagine it, because I knew how embarrassing and unhinged and ultimately futile it would be. Can you believe her, barging in here as if this were an FBI crime scene? Who does she think she is…

My “direct” options were exhausted. So I posted about my lost sunglasses on social media…

It seemed like a natural way to get the word out. I whipped up a basic graphic on Canva and posted on TikTok and Instagram, making sure to use Bay Area location tags. In my desperation, I placed a great deal of hope in the *power of the algorithm* to reach everyone in the 510 and 415 and somehow reunite me with my sunglasses.

The analog lost and found of my childhood was very straightforward. If you left something behind on a family road trip to LA, consider it gone forever. Yeah, it sucked! But it was easier to get closure. If you lost your GAP hoodie during recess, there were a finite number of places you could expect to look, chiefest among them the grimy lost and found bin.

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But social media has expanded the lost and found bin into an ocean of possibilities. You can have eyes anywhere and everywhere. Anyone can make an online plea for assisted surveillance and create a personal search party. When the whole internet is the lost and found bin, you feel as though you can never stop looking because the possibility of finding the lost item never dies.

Take the Tabi Thief story, for example. Through a viral TikTok and IG Story sleuthing, a girl was able to enlist an online army of New Yorkers invested in her missing Tabis AND get solid proof that her Tinder date stole them for his gf AND get them back.

In my head, I’d already been constructing an imaginary thief: the Prada Pilferer. Probably some fashion hoe with microbangs who sat at the table after I left and swiped them the first chance she got. My eyes narrowed as I played out the imaginary scene.

I projected all my cynical beliefs onto her. That people do not have good intentions, the golden rule is dead, everyone is opportunistic.

I fantasized about catching the Prada Pilferer red-handed. Maybe I too could find irrefutable evidence through social media. An IG story where she’s wearing them at the same restaurant would do. My mind stewed in this state of vinegary suspicion as I would check the tagged posts under the restaurant’s IG profile every day, in case it was a breadcrumb to an answer to what happened. I’m not proud of this—the way I could not let go of losing a material object, the way social media led me to cling onto the hope of finding them for far longer than was healthy.

In the age of Airtags, Find My Friends, data recovery software and increasingly sophisticated tracking technology, it feels like we have omnipresent knowledge about where everyone and everything is at all times; everything lost can be restored with a button. And I kinda hate what it does to my expectations.

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They never turned up. And I am still bitter about it. I wish I could tell you that I finally let go, accepted the loss of a material object with dignified monkish asceticism. But reader, all I wanted to do was (1) find them or (2) replace them at reasonable cost. So as (1) was proving to be impossible and mentally unhealthy, I pursued (2). Which meant an exhausting, demoralizing search through resale sites.

This story somehow has a (kinda) happy ending…

My friend (and ebay wizard) Nick saw my lost and found post and sent me a link for a pair in a Hard-off store in Chiba for $37. How did he do it?! I don’t know but his methods are next-level. He showed me how to submit a custom purchasing request on Buyee for items that aren’t on Yahoo, Mercari, or any of the other supported platforms. So that’s the story of how I got the replacement pair.

About a week later they showed up on my porch. The emotion wasn’t so much joy as much as it was relief. I still feel bad that the originals are out there somewhere, and I’ll never know their fate. But the damage control was done.

Losing the first pair has made me overprotective over the replacement pair. There is a mental weight that clouds me when I wear them or take them out of the house. I don’t feel carefree with them. I don’t think I can stand the guilt of losing these too. Losing one is unlucky, losing two feels like proof that I am irresponsible.

It’s been a long time since a fashion object has mentally affected me to this degree. I do really love these sunglasses! But I think the circumstances and timing of how I lost the first pair messed up my ability to have a normal relationship with the replacements. Maybe it will pass—I hope I chill out.

I guess that’s the beauty and curse of vintage. When every item is rare and not easily interchanged or replaceable, you treasure it that much more.

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Thank you for reading. I just got home from a week in Mexico (flew back the same night the IT outage flight meltdowns happened so I count my lucky ass stars I made it!!!) and am recovering from a mild bug, but can’t wait to share more about what CDMX and Oaxaca taught me. Oh, and if you’re interested in reading about the Mexican fashion scene, I highly recommend Latin Zine by Talía Cu.

missing my morning conchas very much

xoxo

viv