How to react when pickpockets attack

I love to travel.

My new name tag says so.

In fact, I love traveling so much that I am willing to substitute the comfort of down pillows in a luxury hotel for the experience of showering dorm style and cramming myself, my mom, dad and boyfriend into a room with four bunks and a glow-in-the-dark exit sign.

All for the sake of my true love: Otherland.

New places and new people. Stories of cultures past and present.

Discovery through travel is one of life's greatest treasures.

But sometimes Otherland does not reciprocate my acts of dedication.

In fact, Otherland can be cruel and callous like the cool kid on the playground who turns his back when the propitiatory pudding cup is forgotten.

I most recently experienced this fickleness in July while visiting the beautiful country of Spain, where wine flows from fountains in plazas and life-size statues are carved from Manchego cheese.

Friends and fellow travelers warned of the elaborate schemes of pickpockets who sneak about the larger cities. My family and I took the necessary precautions without allowing ourselves to become paranoid.



On our last day in Madrid, we gathered our things to make the trip to the airport, all our luggage making us proper foreigners.

When the train squealed to a stop in front of us, my boyfriend and I exchanged hesitant glances. It was 9 a.m. on a Friday, and the cars were packed from door to door. It was going to require contortionist's skill to squeeze inside with our suitcases. But we went for it. I found myself with just enough room to put my suitcase in the door, stand over it and lean back against the wall of the train to protect the zippers of my pack from wandering hands. My boyfriend was a few feet and 10 people in front of me assuming the same stance. He, however, had one hand on the overhead bar and one on his front pocket securing his wallet.

At the next stop, a wave of people shoved by me to get out the double doors. I had no choice but to exit the train to let everyone off. As I put one foot back on the floor of the car, I heard my boyfriend shouting at me from inside.

We made eye contact. I could see he was horrified.

"My wallet's gone!" he shouted over the heads of passengers. He hurriedly made his way to the exit. As he stepped onto the landing, I looked around for some sign of the thief. Surely someone cruel enough to steal a wallet and ruin a life would be wearing an orange jumpsuit and have a big, neon sign hovering over his head flashing the word "GUILTY." But everyone getting off the train was wearing clean-pressed business clothes and had no neon signs to speak of.

Both of my credit cards were in that wallet. Both were now buying someone else my Manchego cheese and my bottles of wine.

I dropped to my knees right there on the landing in the most dramatic way I could muster. I let desperation take over and leaned on my giant, purple-checkered suitcase for support.

My hands flew into the air with clenched fists. I looked to the yellowing ceiling tiles and yelled out the loudest, ugliest, most profane profanity I could think of.

The whole station went quiet.
 
I think the thief heard me. I imagine he paused for a moment in terrified guilt.

I hope he peed himself a little.