Pickpockets in Barcelona

If looks could kill, that pick-pocket would drop dead. 

His grizzled and half-burnt sepia skin was like crinkled leather.  His lips curled into a mocking snarl.  He reminded me of a ragtag junkyard dog scrapping around for selfish advantage, although I hesitate giving him that much credit.

His look is burnt into my mind, where I’m free to sublimate my revulsion onto his visage, where I’m at liberty to recreate the situation except this time I’m a black belt in Jiu Jitsu and as I catch his grubby fingers going for my wallet, I roundhouse him in the chin and send whatever gold teeth he has left scuttling across the Metro station.

In every way, he looked the part he played.  And so – almost – did I.

Because he and his posse came this close to pick-pocketing me.

Troy and I had just arrived in Barcelona.  We booked our next trains and went to the Metro to get into the city.  I was wearing cargo shorts.  My wallet was in one side pocket.  My passport was in the other.  The train arrived. 

Troy went into the railway car.  I was following when a short Spanish guy cut me off.  I tried to get around him but he blocked my way.  Nothing physical.  Nothing overt. Just enough to stop me.

Then I felt the smallest nibble at my right pocket ­– the one with my wallet with about $200 cash in three currencies in it.  My reaction was automatic.  I grabbed my pocket as the hand retreated.  I felt for my wallet.  It was still there.

I looked up.  And saw the scowling junkyard face of the thief.  He grabbed his shorts and uttered bursts of faux-panic, mocking my quick reaction that thwarted him.  I stared straight into his eyes.  I don’t know why.  I was on autopilot at this point.  The adrenaline was burning through my veins, pumping sharp acuity into my senses, probably shaping my face into a look that said I know you did it, I hate you, but I’m better than you, so you’re not worth my hate.

I turned and paced several coaches over.  When I got on, my legs were trembling even though they felt like stone.

This all happened in the span of the Metro doors opening and closing.   Ten seconds.  Maybe less.

The incident pissed me off.  I wasn’t apoplectic, but I was raging, stinking mad.  I took some deep breaths.  I took some more.  It took another few hours to begin to see things on the bright side.

The bright side?  Well, I hadn’t been harmed.  And I had perspective.  It’s as soon as you let your guard down that those junkyard dogs get you.  It was stupid of me to put my passport and wallet in unzippered side pockets.  Especially at the train station where tourists come out.  Especially while wearing a big backpack.  I had certainly let my guard down.

Except I wasn’t gotten.  I’m not sure how close it was.  The only reason I reacted was because I felt the most insignificant little nibble on my side pocket.  Barely perceptible.  And I do know that once the wallet breathes open air, it’s gone.  These dogs work in packs.  One grabs the wallet, passes it to his buddy who scampers to another coach.  Pathetic.  Masterful.

I was more careful for the rest of the trip.