It’s been 25 years since I was last pickpocketed, so I guess I’d let down my guard and in a sense, was due, but man, it is one of the most annoying things to have happen to you, especially at the end of a trip that is otherwise wonderful.
I was on my way home after settling Molly in for her year abroad in Paris. I had gotten down on my hands and knees to scrub the floor of her dusty apartment, helped her fit the contents of three giant suitcases into a 100-square-foot living space, and had done an assessment of the safety around her home and school. I found the lack of a smoke detector and fire escape unacceptable, and we are following up to make sure a detector is installed and she will have an escape route from her sixth-floor apartment in case of emergency. I was so focused on making sure Molly was settled in and safe that I forgot basic precautions concerning my own travels.
The bottom line is that I should have sprung for a cab to the airport or at least taken the Roissy bus from the Paris Opera House. But no, the sensibilities of my 20s kicked in, and I thought why should I pay for a cab when a less than ten Euro ride by train would take the same amount of time and be more scenic to boot? Sigh. One is so wise with hindsight.
I can pinpoint, in my mind’s eye, the exact moment my beautiful pink Kate Spade wallet was lifted from my purse. (The wallet itself was a splurge, a gift to myself. I miss it. Wah. But it is only a material item. I’m safe and that’s the important thing.)
I recount this tale not to garner sympathy — though I wouldn’t turn any away — but to give fellow travelers a heads up that no matter how savvy a traveler you think you are, you too could become a victim. So be careful.
I was seated on the train with my carry-on bag beside me, my wallet inside my purse within another travel bag sitting on top. Again, in hindsight, I should have placed my belongings on the window side and not to the aisle. A couple of stops before Charles de Gaulle airport, a woman came sweeping in. In Europe they would have called her a gypsy. They are ubiquitous, a thorn in the side of travelers and a boon to the manufacturers of those close-to-the-body carryalls for money and passports. Woulda-coulda-shoulda invested in one of those.
She was wearing black garb that covered her from head to toe with long, flowing skirts and she was clanging a jar of change and handing out flyers. She walked past me, and then, as she came back up the aisle, there was a loud crash behind me. I turned my head — for a second — to see what it was. Someone had dropped a jar of coins, and I’m sure that it was in that moment of inattention that she reached in and grabbed my wallet from my unzipped — foolish me — handbag.
I’m sure the perpetrator of the loud bang was an accomplice. I also imagine that perhaps she had a small person or child hidden underneath her flowing robes, someone whose hand reached out for the grab. Otherwise she had to be a magician, because like Russian nesting dolls, my wallet was in a bag within a bag, and her sleight of hand was impressive.
I made the unpleasant discovery of my wallet’s absence at the airport; fortunately I had my passport and boarding pass so I was able to get home, but I traveled with an unsettled feeling the whole way.
I spent the next couple of days canceling and replacing credit cards, going to DMV to replace my license, and doing an inventory of everything else that was missing.
The last time I was pickpocketed was in San Francisco in 1988. Bill and I had just had lunch on Union Square and were strolling afterwards, enjoying the benevolent weather, when someone lifted my wallet from the purse slung over my shoulder. In 1983, I was in China, spending my last day seeing the sights before heading off to Hong Kong, when a young fellow offered to help me carry my bag. Foolishly, I accepted, but back then, I was only 23, and some naivete was to be allowed. Now there’s no excuse. Three strikes, you’re out, and I am kicking myself.
But here’s how I’m choosing to regard my recent misadventure, and it is to take the high road or at least try. If some suburban mom in a faraway country wracked with high unemployment and a terrible economy felt the need to steal my wallet (with about $100 cash and mostly worthless — to her — plastic) to help feed her family or buy milk for her hungry children, then, well, okay. It doesn’t excuse what she did, but it does help ease some of the sting. For me, lesson learned and lesson shared.
