Four Seasons wakeup call comes with coffee delivered to your door.
Four Seasons wake-up call: great morning!
I recently had the great fortune to stay in the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul’s Sultanahmet district. The hotel is perfect. And, you know, I stay in a lot of hotels. A lot of good hotels, too. Rarely do I find perfection. Granted, perfection is expensive.
Requesting a 5 a.m. wake-up call, I was told there’d be coffee at my door when the phone rang. Wow! Wonderful! The concierge, a young man, said that Four Seasons had held a contest last year: what can we do to be different, beyond expectations, really stand out? Something like that. Coffee-with-wake-up-call was his submission. He said—proudly—that it’s now a practice at all Four Seasons Hotels. I’ll confirm that after my next stay at a Four Seasons.
At five o’clock in the morning the phone rang. A real human said good morning. And on a table outside my door, as promised, I found a tray with a cozy-covered thermos of coffee and to-go cups. All this in addition to the fact that the room contained a nifty espresso machine. Brilliant.
The report immediately reminded me of my friends Michael Griffith and Nancy Grigor. As they were departing Lagos, Nigeria, after a brief business trip, they were tortured with cockroaches. A whole filthy jar of them had been dumped on Nancy.
Michael, accustomed to extracting people from sticky situations, was at a loss. He’d pulled people out of South American prisons, choreographed an American’s escape from a Turkish jail, rescued the wrongly accused and the clearly guilty. Now, as he grabbed his delirious wife by her shoulders and tried to steady her, he saw the same overwhelmed eyes he saw in many of his clients. They bulged with a desperate plea for a savior, and of unspeakable horrors.
When Nancy and Michael told me what had happened, I thought of it as distraction in order for immigration officials to successfully bribe a little extra departure tax. Distraction!
In a new light and long after the fact, I consider what was done to them torture, meant to extract money, not confessions. Nancy certainly found the experience to be torture.
Why and how would Nigerian immigration officials torture departing visitors with cockroaches? Read the story if you dare. Nigerian Nightmare.
Pickpockets are free to steal as usual on London’s Tube and trains, but they’ve lost their biggest buyers of smartphones. British Transport Police nabbed 13 gangsters, including the ringleader, in a September 11 pre-dawn raid on multiple locations.
Smartphone theft ring busted
1,000 smart phones were recovered, all wiped clean of data, reset, polished up, boxed, and labeled. The phones were to be shipped to Dubai, eastern Europe, and northern Africa to be sold as new. This scheme reportedly netted the gang about 1.6 million dollars per year.
Excellent work by the British Transport Police and its “Dip Squad!”
However, the pickpockets remain at large. Public transportation passengers in and around London are no safer, and neither are their smartphones. Time to brush up on Pocketology 101 and Purseology 101 for smart-safe storage of valuables.
Actually, I suspect some of the pickpockets may briefly desert the trains and work the streets while “the tip is hot,” as they say. Uniformed and private eyes are on the lookout on the trains and platforms, and in the stations. Think thief. If I were one, I’d cool it on the trains for a week or so.
The pickpockets, doing the grunt-work for the organized crime ring, get paid like any grunt-workers, but enough for them to risk arrest, fines, and brief imprisonment.
The ringleader though, was living the high life in a million-dollar riverside apartment. He’s said to be an Afghan Sikh in his forties. His Audi Q7, parked in the basement garage, contained more than 200 smartphones.
My pet peeve: the persistence of the term “petty” when referring to theft by pickpockets. They’re taking wallets with credit cards they can exploit for thousands of dollars. They’re taking smartphones worth up to a thousand. And they’re doing the grunt-work for a business that rakes in $1.6 million a year.
Chief Superintendent Paul Brogden, leading Operation Magnum, said: “These are not petty criminals. They are in the upper echelons of the criminal network behind the pickpocketing that’s carried out on Tube and rail networks — particularly the West End.”
I recently wrote about beggars on the streets of Stockholm. I observed that an abundance of beggars are now stationed in the streets, and that they are mostly from Romania. I argued that these beggars are organized, and possibly trafficked, that a large portion of collected money goes to “bosses,” and that Swedes are naive and therefore an easy market for the begging enterprise, which is in large part social engineering. The article became quite controversial, especially in Sweden.
Roma beggars in Stockholm take a breakA street in Constanta, RomaniaA street in Constanta, RomaniaA street in Constanta, RomaniaGypsy family in RomaniaA gypsy woman, mother of five children, who collects plastic bottles for a living.A little girl’s rough living.A gypsy woman, mother of five children, who collects plastic bottles for a living.Constanta, Romania skyline
Now, after making a trip to Romania, I have some follow-up information. (But you have to read through my rant before you get it.)
Romanian beggars in Sweden
Swedes are reluctant to believe that their cities and towns have been besieged by professional beggars. Despite the thousands of Romanian beggars in evidence, Swedes stubbornly insist that these are simply individual unfortunate humans who can survive by no other means. For some reason, Swedes excuse them from working for a living. Despite the fact that the Romanian beggars (individually!) all use the exact same posture, the same dress mode, the same plastic bundles of personal effects, the same blanket-wrap and paper cup and laminated photo—even the exact same laminated photo of the very same children. Despite the fact that prime “locations” seem to be continuously occupied, with methodical rotations of personnel so that the position is never vacant, never vulnerable to being usurped by a competitor. Despite the fact that these locations follow a scheme favoring the doors of particular grocery and liquor stores and subway entrances, all over Stockholm and all over Sweden.
Really. Are these Romanian beggars—all the several thousands of them—each sole and separate individuals, each uneducated, each unable to work, each self-organized?
Is Sweden a country of ostriches with their heads buried in the sand? Not quite. Sweden holds a native population intensely dependent on social proof. Everyone is terrified of committing inappropriate behavior, voicing an unpopular belief, not conforming to the group mentality. Everyone’s afraid of appearing to lack compassion, sympathy, charity, and brotherly love. Everyone’s afraid of appearing racist.
For an excellent example of this attitude, take a look at an August 28, 2014 article in Metro, the free paper distributed on Swedish trains. “No, the beggars are not controlled by criminal gangs,” is a translation of the Swedish headline. Its main source of intelligence is a Swedish “homelessness coordinator.” I don’t know, but I would suspect that Romanians who occupy Sweden for the purpose of begging do not go to the state for housing. That’s why they have bosses! To organize them, find them places to sleep. Also note that they carry their possessions around with them in sacks, like old-fashioned hobos.
Other sources in the article tiptoe through their interviews, cautiously hedging with evasive statements like this police officer’s: “‘It is very difficult to say that begging is organized,’ says Stockholm Police Peter Enell.” The article also makes short shrift of the statements by “a police officer with roots in Romania.” To me, the Metro article is laughable. Have a look. Or don’t waste your time.
To find out more about Romanian beggars, Bob Arno and I went investigating in Romania.
We met with a highly experienced police officer and another official in the city of Constanta, neither of whom would like to be named. Both told us that Romanians who beg outside of Romania are definitely organized. (I did not ask about beggars inside Romania.)
I asked if poor villagers sought out begging gang-leaders for assistance, or if villagers were recruited by the gangsters. They are recruited, I was assured. They are desperately poor, and they are Roma. On their own, they could not afford foreign travel. They require the assistance of leaders (bosses, aka gangsters) who organize their transportation. Of course, these bosses must be repaid.
The official pointed out a number of Roma men drinking on the sidewalks. They are robbers, he said.
The police officer said that people are still maimed for the purpose of begging. I did not get clarification, but I take this to mean that it is children who are maimed. The officer described a horrendous practice, in which adults push a child into slow-moving traffic. When the child is hit and injured, the adults demand cash on the spot from the driver in order to not involve the police.
It’s hard to believe that this barbaric savagery really happens. Yet, the officer told us that this exact atrocity had occurred only two days before our meeting, right in the center of town, in front of Tomis Mall (near where we found our pickpockets the next day). I can’t get the nightmarish image out of my head.
I must presume that the adults were not the parents of the child victim. Who is the child, then? Stolen? Purchased? Rented? I also presume that the child, with its unpredictable injuries, is intended to become a compelling beggar who will attract sympathy and more cash with its twisted limbs and scarred skin.
This anachronism is difficult to grasp in modern, civilized society. It’s impossible to imagine the desperation and cold-bloodedness that leads to such an industry.
(It brings to mind the 1989 novel Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn, in which a circus family man concocts chemical cocktails for his pregnant wife, thereby creating his own deformed children for his own lucrative freak show. However, those children are loved. Great book!)
Roma in Romania
Bob and I spoke with a gypsy family that happened to walk past us in Constanta, Romania. Our translator begged us not to, insisting that it would bring trouble and they’d demand money. He said they wouldn’t speak much Romanian and he didn’t speak any Romany. Bob persisted, and the family sat down in a nearby park, amenable and unperturbed.
They were clearly penniless. The mother’s clothes were black with muck and she carried a grubby blanket. The children, eight and eleven years old, were bright and alert. They answered Bob’s questions with the same trepidation any shy children would, glancing at their mother, who smiled back and nodded. The children attended school. The mother had not.
I was enchanted by the little girl, whose scarred and dirty face was beaming one moment, serious the next. Her radiant smile baring two chipped front teeth hinted of a tough life. Her rubber sandals were cracked, broken, and dirty. Her feet were caked with grime, her toenails chipped and encrusted. She wants to be a doctor.
The mother has five children: 3, 8, 11, 15, and 20. They live in a house where they pay a small rent. The children’s father is very ill, she told us. He was hit in the head recently. But she doesn’t drink or smoke, she emphasized, as if to counter an unsaid accusation. Also, her brother has been arrested and is in jail for two years. She didn’t elaborate, but added that she’s not afraid of police. She’s sad that she doesn’t have her own house—that’s her dream. To support her family, she collects plastic bottles.
“You ask hard questions,” our translator said, “very personal.”
Now Bob beat around a bush. Without asking directly, he tried to find out if the family had been approached by human traffickers or gangsters offering them a better life. He spoke directly to the children.
Our translator was not familiar with our peculiar area of interest and had no idea what we were getting at—which is just the way we wanted it. No interfering, no answering on behalf of the family or spinning their replies. It was interesting to observe his change in attitude. He softened toward the children, he was charmed by them, and impressed by the mother’s candid and sincere statements.
When Bob invited the mother to ask him questions, she had none. She simply smiled and said “I’m glad that you asked us all these questions and pleased that you are interested in our life.”
The family did not ask us for money, though we gave them some at the end. The children handled the bills reverently, then handed them to their mother. The woman was surprised and grateful.
Criminal Romanian begging rings
I have not seen any children (Roma or otherwise) begging in Sweden. I’m sure it wouldn’t be tolerated. However, Romanian children beggars and pickpockets are plentiful in England, Italy, Spain, France, and probably additional European countries, but those I have listed I have personal experience with.
Here’s a 2-minute BBC clip on Romanian child-beggars, human trafficking, begging-ring bosses, and new riches in poor Romanian villages.
Romanian pickpocket in Romania today. Where will he be tomorrow? Paris? Rome? Madrid?
The pickpocket pair was plain as day to us. And we were just as obvious to them: tourists—by definition, filthy rich and fair game.
One of the two pickpockets who tried to work on Bob ArnoThe Romanian pickpocket tries to work Bob Arno
Romania’s pickpockets are tourists, too. As some of the most traveled of thieves, they’re regularly found plying their ancient trade all across Europe and beyond. They send their earning back to Romania. (Hence their little Romanian shanty towns gone grand.) In our thiefhunting pursuits, Bob Arno and I have met Romanian pickpockets while traveling in Europe top to bottom, east to west, from Sweden to Spain, from England to Estonia, and everywhere in between.
Romanian pickpockets
Bob and I had come to Romania to see Romanian pickpockets on their home turf. It didn’t take long. Two minutes in the city, and there they were. We’d planned to visit Bucharest but learned at the last minute that on this long summer holiday weekend Bucharest would be empty. Everyone who possibly could would be at the beach; and following them would be the pickpockets. So we decided to explore Constanta.
The pickpocket pair laid in waiting on the corner of the pedestrian street. We probably spotted and identified each other at the same instant. For my part, it was easy. If I’d just seen the man’s diagonally-worn messenger bag, I’d give him a suspicious look. Noting the sweater he carried, the man was as good as guilty. After all, it was 80 degrees; yet, the sweater was not folded and forgotten. Rather, it was over his arm, then flourished, fiddled with, and finally folded over his messenger bag. A “tool,” for sure.
Yesterday, we’d met with the city’s pickpocket police officer, a man with 32 years’ experience—rare for the pickpocket detail, who usually move on to more interesting policing. The cop, whose identity I need to conceal, described the local pickpocket techniques.
Romanian pickpocket techniques
“Wrestling” is what he calls the first M.O. The pickpocket approaches his mark straight on with a big smile and familiar greeting. “Remember me, Andrei?” He picks a very common name. While locking eyes and insisting that the two know each other, the thief puts his hands on the mark’s shoulders and shakes him roughly. His partner comes from behind and picks the wallet during the commotion. The thief stops abruptly, apologizes, and departs, while the victim is still rattled, wondering if he really did know the friendly stranger.
“Belt-shake” is method number two. The thief compliments the mark’s shoes and/or clothing, and finally his belt. He shakes the belt and, during the distraction, either snags the vic’s wallet or his partner does.
A poser, early bathers, a stage, and 30 beer stands, ready for the holiday weekend evening on the beach in Constanta, Romania.Constanta beach crowd just getting startedA building in Constanta, RomaniaA grand old house in Constanta, Romania
So Bob and I went for a little stroll in this large Romanian coastal city and almost immediately, there we were, face to face with a pair of Romanian pickpockets in Romania.
With almost no English skills at all, the faux-friendly thief began chatting up Bob while his partner tried to head me into a different direction. “Where you from” is a phrase they both used. Bob’s guy claimed to be a tourist from Bulgaria and asked where the casino was. Then he began to compliment Bob’s clothes.
I had started taking pictures right away. Though the partner tried to distract me, I kept an eye on Bob’s encounter. The perp fingered Bob’s pants with an admiring smile. He ran his hand lightly over the fabric. This is called “fanning,” when a pickpocket tries to establish where the valuables are kept.
Bob maintained a smiley, gentle demeanor, hoping the thief would validate his designation by dipping into his pocket or getting his partner to do so. But something spooked them. Perhaps it was my picture-taking, or perhaps one or both of us didn’t play like regular tourists. In any case, my guy said something to Bob’s guy and pulled back, retreating to pace twitchily in the shadow of a building. His colleague continued to persist with Bob for several minutes longer. He slowly grasped that we weren’t playing our expected roles. Finally he too disappeared down a side street.
Upon seeing these photos, our police contact identified the pickpocket right away by name and said he’d just been let out of jail. Take a good look at him. You may see him next in Paris, Rome, or Barcelona.
In Stockholm, it’s that time of year. Fresh, delicious, Swedish potatoes. Get them in the neighborhood grocery stores, dirt and all. I’ve never seen them sold like this in the U.S. Maybe I’m living in the wrong places. In Sweden, I gorge on these.
I was happy to discover that all three windows opened in my beautiful room at Hotel Luna Baglioni. So many hotels seal up bedroom windows, forcing guests to rely on air conditioning.
My room at the gorgeous Hotel Luna Baglioni on St. Mark’s Square in Venice.
This hotel, right on the edge of Piazza San Marco in Venice, was near perfect in every way. (I won’t gripe about the concierge’s bad restaurant recommendations.) Snuggled within the thickest, most luxurious bed linens ever, flanked by Fortuny chandeliers, I could almost forgo the streets of Venice for the comfort and ambiance of this room. Almost.
The windows opened from the top, tipping down slightly—just enough to get a little breeze going. It was both the heavy curtains and the window hardware that prevented a wider opening.
I had a daily battle with housekeeping: I’d leave the windows and curtains open. Housekeeping would slip in and close the windows and curtains.
One day I returned after breakfast, re-opened the layers of curtains, and re-opened the window. Lo! It opened sideways, and all the way!
WTF??? Is this my room? I felt almost dizzy with confusion, having opened this very window repeatedly with a different outcome each time.
The window tips down from the top. Notice the handle is vertical.
Turning the handle to a horizontal position opens the window horizontally. Brilliant!
Closing and opening the window a few times, paying close attention, I figured it out. Notice the handles. Straight up opens the top. Turning the handle further to the horizontal position opens the window sideways.
What complicated hardware! I rushed around to try the other bedroom window and the one in the bathroom. Both worked the same way. I like it!
Pickpocket partners Tony and Mario as they steal Bob Arno’s wallet
So, we’re standing at a bar near the train station, drinking espresso with pickpockets in Naples (how we got here is described in Part One of this story) right after they stole our wallet. Bob attempts to describe his profession. In a combination of French, English, and a little Italian, he tries to explain that he’s an entertainer, a performer, a stage pickpocket—which leads to…
A Misunderstanding and a Proposition
“First let me explain,” Bob said, “I work in casinos. I do big operations. I also do theaters. I am an artiste.” He looked around for someone wearing a watch. “Let me show you.”
Bob reached a long arm out to a newcomer in the bar and lifted his watch, his customary proof of comradeship.
“Oh, bravo!” Mario and Tony laughed. “He took the bus driver’s watch! Good job, well done.” The driver got his watch back and faded into the background. Is it logical, or odd, that pickpockets and bus drivers hang out at the same bar?
Stealing credit cards
“Me, I steal credit cards,” said Mario. “Visa—wait, wait, listen to this! You speak all these languages. If you work with me we’ll make so much money. I know all the cities. Florence, Venice, Viareggio…. We can work in Rome, Naples…”
Mario clearly did not capish Bob’s explanation about casinos, theaters, and artiste.
“But there’s no money in Naples!” Bob scoffed.
“No, no, here is good! Here I steal credit cards. Then I go to a shop and buy Rolexes. Rolex! You understand? Then I sell them, get money, and I share with my friends.”
Mario was convinced that Bob worked at casinos and theaters as a thief—a real artiste. It was only later that we realized the ambiguity of Bob’s earnest attempt at a job description. Unintentionally reinforcing the error, Bob laughed, bumped into Mario, and lifted the wallet from Mario’s back pocket.
Bob Arno boards a crowded tram in Naples, Italy
“Oh, I see what you do! Multi-bravo!” Mario said, and in Neapolitan explained to the bartender what had happened. “He took my wallet, he’s pretty smart! We came in here to have coffee together.” Mario didn’t mention the other part, that he’d taken Bob’s wallet first. But the bartender probably knew that.
“I have some friends at shops who help with these things. We’d make a good team, you and me. If you work with me, I can give you each a thousand dollars a day!” Yes, each! “Have you been to Ischia? To Capri?”
Mario’s cellphone rang. “Bueno. I’m by the Vesuviana. Okay, I’m coming over there. Ciao.”
Mario and Tony spoke to each other for a moment in Neapolitan, trying to figure out why Bob does this. He does it as a hobby, they concluded, just for fun.
“Madam, you want to try?” Tony offered me a taste of his almond milk, which looked intriguing but, was I going to drink from a stranger’s glass? A known thief? Bob and I were concurrently on the trail of the “yellow bomb,” in which patient thieves in Turkey spike drinks with Nembitol or benzodiazepine, then rob the knocked-out victim.
“No, grazie.” Looking at Tony, I pointed to the t-shirt he had draped over his shoulder satchel. I pointed to the t-shirt and smiled, tapped my head like “I know,” then waggled my finger and shook my head. The international pantomime worked, and Tony laughed. “No good,” he agreed, and stuffed the shirt into the satchel. I hadn’t noticed the hanging shirt when we were on the tram together but, if I had, it would have signaled “pickpocket” in a big way.
“Tomorrow I go to my family,” Mario said. “My wife is in Calabria with the children. I am driving to Calabria this evening to be with them, and I’m coming back tomorrow.”
I tried to picture this bus-working wallet-thief heading off to a seaside vacation.
“Here is my mobile phone number,” Mario said, handing Bob a piece of paper. “Call me. Any day is good.”
“But we’re leaving Napoli,” Bob began.
Mario interrupted. “Listen to me properly. The 18th and 19th of this month I will be in Florence. Florence is very, very good. I know everything about it. I can find out right away if the credit cards are good or not. And you would be a perfect partner because you speak French, English—”
“And I speak German as well,” Bob said. Wait—was he buying into this?
“So you come with your wife and we’re going to take credit cards only for Rolex. We’ll work on the train that goes from Florence to Monaco to Paris.” Mario made a stealthy swiping motion. “There’s a lot of good stuff we can do together.”
“That’s difficult for me.”
A typical coffee bar in Naples
“Listen. I get on the train that goes to these places, Vienna, Florence, Monaco, Paris. I go all day long and I take only credit cards. We make seven- to ten-thousand euros in one day. If you want, tomorrow, call me.”
Omigod. That’s nine- to thirteen-thousand dollars. Now I pictured Mario roaring down the highway in a Ferrari, adoring family eagerly awaiting the hard-working dad at their private summer villa.
“I can’t call you tomorrow, but maybe the day after. We’ll be in Venice for three days.”
“You work in Venice?” Mario looked surprised. “Okay, but you pay attention. Be careful there.”
“Yes, I know,” Bob said. By now it was too much to explain.
“If you do it properly, this is a fabulous job. Especially in Venice.”
“But there’s a vigilante group there.”
“I know, I’ve been there for Carnivale. I know the place.”
We said our good-byes and thanked Mario for the coffee.
“This is Napoli! You are my guest,” he said. Right, the same guest he’d tried to rip off half an hour ago. We ambled back to the buses, the four of us, splitting to opposite ends of the waiting passengers.
Bob and I, a bit stunned, wanted to get on the first bus that came along. As one pulled up and we moved toward the door, Mario shouted from thirty yards away: not that one, next one. Then he and Tony hopped on another and, presumably, went back to work.
Over coffee we had chided and joked with these high-end pickpockets, conversing easily in French. Having accidentally established ourselves as professional colleagues, we rode the misconception to our advantage, encouraging Mario to tell us about his world. As Mario spoke, I recorded him with a visible, hip-held video camera, which I tossed around casually. I was worried about being caught with the camera running. Bob and I were jolly and friendly, belying our nerves and disapproval. Tony was reserved, possibly due to his lack of French. Mario was enthusiastic and embracing, but was he feigning? We thought not.
Naples has a history steeped in crime and a people sincerely warm and jovial. It just might be the thievery capital of the world. I’m not sure, though; there are so many contenders. Myth and history tell us that it’s is the birthplace of pizza, but today this gritty, passionate, mob-infested city is better known for its pickpocketing. Who’s involved? Who lives in the underworld? Who’s on the fringes? It’s impossible for an outsider to know.
“Do you have any books on the Camorra crime family?” Bob asked later in a book shop.
“Camorra! The Camorra is a fantasy,” the shop owner replied dismissively. He was smiling though. In Naples, one only whispers about the Camorra.
Tony laughs nervously on the tram when asked to return Bob’s stolen wallet.
Coffee with Thieves
An August Sunday in Naples. Holiday time for all of Europe and most shops were shut. We bought bus tickets at a kiosk with our last coins, dodged the wild traffic, and crossed to the narrow center strip to wait for a crowded bus. I carried a small video camera in my hands and wore a fanny pack containing my other camera. Bob had a hidden camera, its guts stowed in a shoulder-bag he wore across his chest.
A number one bus arrived, jammed. I didn’t think we’d be able to get on. The doors jerked open and a few passengers tumbled out like crickets escaping from a child’s jar. Bob and I shuffled forward with the mob as the people onboard compacted like empties. We would never voluntarily join such a scene were it not for the call of research. This was highly unpleasant; beyond funny.
“No way. Let’s wait for another,” I said to Bob.
Tony the pickpocket would rather stay on the bus than go for coffee with his victim.
Two clean-cut middle-aged men who’d gotten off the bus were now behind us, corralling the doubtful like sheepdogs. Somehow, with their encouragement, we all got on, filling spaces we hadn’t known existed. The good samaritans kept us from bursting off the bus in the pressure while one yelled “chiude a porta, chiude a porta,” close the door!
My chest was pressed against a vertical pole. A wiry man in front of me had his back to the same pole. Glancing down, I saw his hand behind his back, blindly trying to make sense of the zipper tabs on my fanny pack, which I’d paperclipped together. I watched, half amused, half outraged at his audaciousness.
Pickpockets in Naples, Italy
We’d already made half a dozen or so tram trips that morning and had been pickpocketed on most of them. We hadn’t yet seen the same thieves twice. By now it seemed a certainty: riding a crowded bus or tram in Naples meant intimacy with a thief. Well, let me qualify that to specify buses and trams on lines that tourists might travel; specifically those stopping at the ship and ferry terminal, the archeological museum, and the train stations. Looking at the protective behavior of local passengers, bus-bandits seemed to be an accepted fact of life, as if there’s one in every crowd.
The disembodied hand couldn’t solve the puzzle in its fingertips. It dropped, or crawled away of its own accord. No success, no accusation.
Bob suddenly reached for my camera and held it high above the compressed mob, pointing down.
Pickpocket Mario, Tony’s partner, convinces Tony to go with us for coffee.
“Give back the wallet,” he said quietly. “There’s no money in it.”
“Okay, okay,” said one of the good samaritans. He handed it back with a sheepish grin below ultra-cool wraparound reflective sunglasses. In the video, you can see him lower the wallet to his thigh and check its contents.
“Come talk to us,” Bob said in French as the doors popped open. “Just talk—and coffee.”
“Café? Café?” He raised an invisible little cup to his lips, pinkie outstretched. “Okay.” But when the doors opened there was a cat-and-mouse game as we all four hopped off and on the bus with opposing motives. They were trying to ditch us. Finally Bob and I were on the ground with one of the pair while the other hung in the doorway of the bus, reluctant. “C’mon,” we all yelled to the last guy, and he finally joined us.
The men led us into a bar across the street and as we entered, I realized we had no money with us. Horrified, I pulled the last note from my pocket, not even enough for an inexpensive Italian espresso.
“No problem, you are my guests,” said the Italian who spoke French, with the hospitality of a Neapolitan. He ushered us in with the same warmth and efficiency he’d used to herd us onto the bus. He ordered three coffees, four glasses of water, and one almond milk.
“Bambi and Bob,” we introduced ourselves.
Mario, a high-end pickpocket who steals credit cards on trains to Florence, Paris, Monte Carlo.
“Mario,” said the one who spoke French. He studied us quizzically, as if he’d never been invited for coffee by a man whose wallet he’d just swiped.
“Tony,” said the reluctant other, and we all shook hands.
Mario was trim, 50ish, with smooth skin, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a receding hairline. He wore a crisp white t-shirt tucked into blue shorts secured with a leather belt. With a watch, gold ring, cellphone, and snazzy shades, this was no lowlife, drugged-up desperado. Mario looked respectable, like anybody’s brother.
Tony was a little rounder, and clearly the junior partner. He squinted under a blue baseball cap, and—did you ever want to know where a pickpocket keeps his wallet?—in the pocket of his blue button-down shirt. It was Tony who’d first tried to take Bob’s wallet on the bus, but Mario who succeeded and slipped it to Tony.
Unlike most of the other cities we’ve visited, pickpockets in Naples are homegrown. They’re not immigrants, handy to take the rap, or despised illegals doing what they can for their very survival. These are Neapolitans practicing an age-old profession without, as far as we can tell, a shred of shame.
The salesman who overcharged me in Rome’s Mercato di Campo de’ FioriKitchenware for sale at Rome’s Mercato di Campo de’ Fiori
Overcharge Scam
“Do you take credit cards?”
“Si, signora,” the salesman replied.
“How much is this pepper grinder?”
“€12.90.”
So why was the credit card slip made out for 15.90 euros? Accident? Or was this a little scam the market man thought he could pull on an idiot tourist? On a hurried customer, one who might not examine the credit card slip.
This was in Rome’s bustling outdoor market in Campo de’ Fiori, at the large kitchenware stand right next to a man pressing pomegranate halves as fast as he could and selling €6 cups of juice to an endless line of customers.
When I called him on it, the salesman wordlessly handed me three euros in coins. Not sheepishly. Just wordlessly.
Like a pickpocket who silently drops the stolen wallet on the ground. Not me… there it is… no harm done, right?
I can’t say for sure that this was a systematic overcharge scam used—perhaps vengefully?—on customers who have the audacity to pay with a credit card. But I have my opinion…
