Pickpockets - Part 2 of 2 (The train to Rome)

So when found out I had prostate cancer, I set myself a goal: To lose the cancer even if it meant losing the prostate, regain continence, and pee in a nice controlled way in a bathroom in Italy.  So after goal 1 and 2 were done, Karen and I found ourselves on the Leonardo Express from Fiumicino Airport to Rome.  We had just bought a map and almost felt like we knew what we were doing.  Almost.

If you read yesterday's blog, you know that while I am not paranoid about pickpockets, I do have a couple of things I do when I'm in crowds or unknown situations. (1) I never wear a fanny pack.  Actually I never wear a fanny pack anyhow.  It sounds stupid, it looks stupid, and it goes in the front and my fanny is in the back.  (2) I switch my wallet from its usual place in my back hip pocket to my front pocket where it is close to my black belt tae kwon do hands...and yes I know that tae kwon do is more about kicking with the feet but if I put my wallet in my shoe, I walk with a limp. 

The other thing about the Italy trip is that Italy was great but getting there and coming home could be made into a movie with Chevey Chase.  Everything went wrong all the time.  By the time we were on the Leonardo Express we had given up our sanity long ago.  Secondly (or maybe thirdly), we had been told  by everyone to travel light.  Consequently, each of us was lugging one large suitcase which was strapped to an even larger rolling suitcase.  In addition, Karen had a carry-on and a handbag.  I had a laptop in a backpack and a camera bag.  Together we resembled a mule train of bipedal donkeys.

This is actually in Milan

But I didn't take a picture of the Leonardo Express

for reasons that will shortly become obvious

We hadn't bothered to sit down but stood in the midst of a pyramid of baggage near the door of the train, wondering what we had gotten ourselves into.  Since I had already emptied my bladder at the airport, I was considering that I had met my goal and we should just turn around and go home instead of spending three more weeks of indentured servitude as porters. 

But the train slowed as it entered the station.  People were trying to get off and giving us evil eyes because our luggage almost blocked the door.  Worst things was that a huge obese man was behind me and was squeezing his way to get to the next car in such a way that despite my liberal upbringing, I suffered an attack of homophobia. 

Once he was past me, and had waddled into the next car, I automatically did a little routine pat down of my front pocket and HOLY CRAP!  MY WALLET WAS GONE!  Karen saw me turn white and said, "What's wrong?"
"He stole my wallet!" I shouted.  Now we had split up our cash, more or less.  Some of it was even stashed in a suitcase.  But the majority...the big majority was in the wallet.  As well as credit cards.

This was not a time to be polite.  I pushed people aside and dashed into the next car.  He was not there!  He was too big to miss and, apparently faster than he looked.  I ran through the car and into the next one.  Still not there.  I looked out the windows.  I knocked down a woman.  Halfway throught the third car, after accidentally kicking some poor little kid, I figured the fat crook must have gotten off the car.  I didn't have much time.  I was screaming in my lousy Italian, "Questo es Hombre Gordo?!"  Maybe it was Spanish. 

Then I paniced.  What was Karen doing?  Was Karen getting off?  Was she staying on, thinking I was still on the train?  I freaked to think I might never see her again.   The door was starting to close.  No man!  Where was Karen?  I was screaming, "Stoppo Traino!!  Stoppo Traino!!" 

I jumped off the train to look down the station loading area, preparing to jump back on!  No fat man!  No Karen!  But wait!  There was a gigantic mountain of luggage off in the distance.  So I sprinted back.  Overjoyed to be reunited with Karen but sinking to realize that half our cash was gone!

As the train pulled away, everybody in the train was glued to the windows staring at me and making various hand gestures.   I looked back and everybody on the platform was doing the same thing.   I imagined the headlines:  "Crazy American Beaten to Death by Angry Crowd."

I wanted to cry.  I slumped down and sat on a suitcase.  It was uncomfortable because of a lump in my back pocket.   My wallet.  When I had bought the map, I had unconsciously put my wallet back where I usually keep it when not in crowds.  I learned that it is possible to feel totally stupid, totally guilty and totally relieved and totally happy simultaneously.  Although Karen's expression when she looked at me holding up the wallet seemed to convey only the totally stupid part. 

I put the wallet back in my front pocket despite the fact that nobody on the platform was willing to come within twenty-five feet of me. 

Birthday Break – Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I haven’t forgotten that am in the middle of a series. Actually, I am 75 percent of the way through a series. But I noticed that today was the birthday of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Colombian author, who wrote 100 Years of Solitude.

I think he was one of the first authors from Colombia to gain a broader worldwide reputation. So I’m taking a one-day break – The plot for The Whale Novel that will never be written (yes, yes, I’m aware of Moby Dick) will be tomorrow.

BAGMAN: “Unfair! This is jus a ploy to keep me locked up and out of your blog.”

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I think I loved 100 Years of Solitide, although it is hard to be certain because the 1970’s was a time when I sometimes loved things because I thought it would make me cool to love them. I made deeply literary critical remarks about new authors such as, “Far out, man.”

In any case, from the fall of 1971 to the spring of 1972, I went through a period of thinking that, instead of wanting to be Earnest Hemingway, I really wanted to be a National Geographic photographer. Of course, I never told National Geographic about this.

Not quite true. I did visit the National Geographic Museum in Washington, DC and mentioned it to one of the custodians there.

Convinced that this custodian would carry my message to the editorial staff and a check would be waiting when I returned, I went to Colombia with one of those antique cameras that used something called “film.” For about 6 months, I pretended to be a National Geographic photographer but, looking back, I must conclude that the real reason I was there was for the cheap cost of rum.

While in Santa Marta, I learned that the birthplace of Gabriel Garcia Marquez was a small village in the jungle north of there, I traveled up on local buses filled with people carrying live chickens and arrived in a small town where I made inquiries with my expertise in Spanish which consisted of a vocabulary of approximately 25 words most of which consisted of names for alcoholic beverages.

My experience there was incredible for two reasons. The first was that, although Marquez had gained considerable fame outside of Colombia, I was apparently one of the first Americans to show up with an interest in his birthplace. The second was the price of rum was even cheaper there than it was on the coast.

It seemed like, once the word spread, the entire town turned out to follow me around, everyone eager to tell me fantastic anecdotes about his childhood which would have made great copy for National Geographic if my Spanish proficiency had enabled me to understand anything they were saying. His neighbors invited me into their houses and gave me free rum. And more people showed up to follow me around.

Looking back, I think some of them were placing bets in a pool about how long I would be able to remain standing upright. And how much they could sell my camera for once I was peacefully asleep in the bushes behind his house.

I disappointed them and did not completely pass out until I was on the chicken bus back to Santa Marta where I finally came to, relieved to find my camera still around my neck. I guess chickens were more valuable.

Eventually, back in the States, I had my film developed. I was dismayed but not really surprised to find that 90% of the photographs were out of focus. Most cameras, today, now have autofocus. A bit of God’s ironic humor now that I no longer drink alcohol and can actually focus again.

But there was one that came out pretty well, so I’ll place it in this blog which may not reach as big an audience as National Geographic but which is more personal. I like that.

Because I am using my 62 year old memory to recall what this couple told me in Spanish that I could not understand and that I was concentrating on remaining vertical at the time, I’m not entirely sure…But. These folks were either his grand parents, his aunt and uncle, his neighbors, or the owners of the little shop that sold rum. I am pretty sure, however, that the little boy in the hat in the background ran the local black market, specializing in photographic equipment.

Happy 80^th birthday, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and eat your heart out, National Geographic.