Bambi Vincent – Page 11 – Thiefhunters in Paradise

Shoulder-surfing credit-card thief—part 2

'Hello there, Monsieur Pickpocket. I'm Bob Arno.' Photo Â© Kun Chang 2010.

Bob had just made contact with the shoulder-surfing thief…

Pirouetting, I went to find Kun Chang, our film director, who’d been with us all day, along with his crew. When we’d given chase to our quarry, they’d followed our progress from a distance, eventually taking up a static, central position. Now I stood with Kun & Co. just long enough to get my little video camera turned on, amazed to see Bob and the purse-dip still together.

I went to join them, instantly lowering Bob’s perceived threat, from the thief’s point of view. No longer was it one mysteriously-motivated man against a criminal—it was just a couple! A harmless, curious couple. We moved out of the traffic and huddled next to a vending machine.

The man did not deny his occupation. He did not bolt. He did not raise a fist or deliver a swift kick or practice whatever form of aggression he’s known for. He answered our questions in soft-spoken Arabic-tinged French and repeatedly asked one of his own: Why? Why do you want to know these things?

Our French-speaking film director, Kun Chang, soon joined us, raising the level of our conversation from Bob’s basic French. I glanced down at my camera, a tiny thing the size of my little finger. Packed into its small body are a battery, a chip that stores hours of sound and video, an unnoticeable lens, and a few switches. Gone are the cumbersome wires, remotes, antennas, transmitters, and external storage devices we wrangled while using our old hidden cameras. But this one lacks a viewing device or monitor, and I wasn’t familiar with its capturing angle, or anything else about it.

Bob used a gorgeous little fisheye camera. He took a quick peek to see that it was on, then stashed it in his pocket, recording audio but no video.

Glancing down, I was horrified to see a flashing red light. This is one of the first things I usually disable when thiefhunting. You may as well display a giant neon sign: “I’m recording!” I covered the light with my finger, immobilizing my left hand for the remainder of the encounter.

Bob: “I’m a pickpocket too, like you. For the last 20 minutes, I’ve watched your technique. I can see you’re very experienced.” Bob does the butter-up.

Thief: “You’re probably better than I am.” TouchÃ©.

Bob: “I’m very good on stage.” (And modest, an Italian thief once chided.)

First time using this camera. I didn't aim very well.

Bob, afraid our detainee would soon scoot, suggested coffee together, or dinner. “I need to work, I can’t stop to have dinner with you,” he said. “And beside, I don’t want to be on TV. I can see you’re filming me right now.” He jabbed a finger toward my camera.

Cooly, I pretended not to hear that.

We learned that our man considers himself best at stealing from handbags and backpacks. It’s best to do it when the person is moving, in motion, he explained, and you have to concentrate on the person while you’re doing it. Puffing up a little, he invited us to follow him and watch.

Looking up at Bob Arno, who is much taller.

I suddenly noticed how much fringe from my scarf was falling in front of the camera. I swept it away. But maybe that was why the thief had seemed to forget about it. I wondered what kind of image I was getting. And what about sound? Was my finger over the microphone? I didn’t know.

The thief told us that he doesn’t know how to work in a gang, he never has. And he said stealing is a hundred times more difficult on the street, as compared to the stage. Bob agreed, though he believes otherwise. When a criminal fails, he walks away and tries again. When a stage pickpocket fails, he has hundreds or thousands of witnesses, and a reputation dependent on success.

Throughout, the man stood calmly, gesturing rarely, jacket zipped to his chin. Built like a flyweight boxer, exuding confidence and arrogance, he seemed in no hurry to leave us, despite his professed need to work. (We actually see this behavior often: thieves seem to enjoy an opportunity to brag, to tell their sob stories, to talk to someone willing to listen.)

The pickpocket explained the importance of getting the cardholder-victim’s PIN, and that he had no trouble memorizing the four digits. He said he uses the credit cards himself, he never sells them to others. Then he dropped the bombshell—to me, the most interesting revelation:

He doesn’t steal money—only credit cards. He never takes people’s cash because it’s not insured. What he steals from their credit cards, they get back from the bank.

Really? A thief with a heart?

Bob begged again for a dinner together, or another meeting. The thief said sure, maybe tomorrow, and took our phone number. He made sure we had his name spelled correctly, and suggested some possible times. Shaking hands all around, he turned and slipped into the turbulent crowd. Back to work.

* * *
Did we go to the Eiffel Tower, you wonder? Did we visit Notre Dame, or the Louvre? No, no time for any of that this time. But we did eat well.

Shoulder-surfing credit-card thief

We started early at Gare de Lyon in Paris, on the hunt for a particular thief. He’s known for a specific M.O., and for his violent nature.

He stands in line at train station ticket machines and watches as passengers purchase tickets with credit cards. Most credit cards issued outside of the U.S. require a PIN code, which must be entered on a keypad. The large keypads on the train station ticket machines make it easy for anyone interested to learn a cardholder’s PIN. Rarely do people bother to hide the numbers they enter.

A man enters his PIN while buying Metro tickets with a credit card.

The man we sought takes note of the PIN—he shoulder-surfs—and watches where the credit card is put away. Then he follows the mark. He has any number of methods of stealing the credit card; the train and Metro station is full of opportunities-in-the-making.

He could let a partner stall the mark in a turnstile, on an escalator, or getting onto a train. But that would mean splitting the proceeds of the risky business with the partner. Our man prefers to work alone.

With crowds like these, who needs to split proceeds with a stall?

His favored victim is a woman. Why? It’s infinitely easier to steal from a handbag rather than a pocket. A purse has no nerve-endings. It’s slung on the woman’s back, it’s gaping open, it has an easy zipper, or a flap. The woman is busy, distracted, she has luggage, or a child. She’s in high heels, she’s “minding the gap.”

We spent hours speeding through Gare de Lyon, fastwalking up and down stairs and escalators, through the train station and Metro station, past numerous banks of ticket machines, around and around. Who said thiefhunting is easy work?

Our irregular behavior might have raised the suspicion of station surveillance officers, had the police not been aware of our activities. But Bob Arno’s reputation precedes him and the anti-bandit detail of the Paris police force tolerated our pursuit.

Shoulder-surfing at the ticket machines.

When we first laid eyes on our prey, he was checking out the people waiting to buy tickets at the machines. He sussed them out quickly; the same way Bob and I look for thieves in a crowd. He turned on his heel and strode off at high speed, as if late for a train.

I was struck by his choice of clothing. He wore a shiny black jacket with wide white stripes down the arms, and a beige beret; both of which made him easy to pick out of a crowd. Bob and I, trailing him from a moderate distance, often lost him in the mobs of moving people. But he always surfaced again, easy to spot in his signature style. Had he worn a dull shirt, or a black sport coat like Pierre, like a good percentage of the businessmen hurrying through the terminal, we’d have lost him.

Okay, it's a bad picture. This is a small detail cropped from a fisheye video framegrab. The thief is in the center.

Bob and I split up for the chase. We made wide arcs around the thief, we got ahead of him, we hung back, we lingered behind columns and vending machines. I felt conspicuous in my beige coat. Bob was a striking beanstalk, a full head above the rest of the crowd. The guy had to notice us… any second.

I had two video cameras on me, but neither was my trusty Sony, the one I can work upside-down and blindfolded and shoot from the hip. I didn’t turn them on.

The man was short but his bereted head rode among the crowd’s like a piece of litter on a choppy sea. He darted among the throng in a manner that Bob and I soon found predictable. He dashed from one queue to the next, scanned the potential marks, moved on. He was focused.

But he had tunnel vision. After all this time, he was oblivious to us. Bob and I got closer and more overt, closing in from opposite sides. I fiddled with my camera, afraid to look at its switches for fear of losing the bobbing beige beret.

But I did look at the camera. And when I looked up again, Bob was face to face with the shoulder-surfing pickpocket, and I knew it was all over. In a moment, he’d flee.

Or not… Part 2

credit card France paris pickpocket

Will the Pickpocket keep his appointment?

After such a successful meeting with Pierre the part-time-Parisian-pickpocket, our filmmaker, Kun Chang, was full of confidence. He booked a soundman and assistant for our appointment the next day. He and I would handle the cameras.

It’s a tricky business, filming thieves—you can’t shove a giant television camera in their faces and expect cooperation. Bob and I know this from many years of experience, but Kun’s history of criminal interviews included just one hour off-camera with a pre-buttered “friend.” Kun’s priority was getting the high sound and video quality required by our (still secret) investor-distributor, whose standards are ultimate. Bob and I just wanted the meeting; we wanted Pierre and his friend to demonstrate how they pick pockets, and tell us about their work; and we wanted to film it if possible. Kun wanted the same, but only if he could record audio and video at the required standards. Otherwise, none of it was of any use to him—he couldn’t put it in the film.

This little conflict was settled by way of two compromises. First, Kun would shoot video on an unobtrusive camera himself, without an additional cameraman. He thought his Canon EOS 5D Mark II would do. Second, he’d keep his soundman and assistant at a distance and only call them in at the last moment, so as not to present a large, offensive front that would overwhelm the casual atmosphere we hoped to maintain.

The crew was booked. The time and place were set.

Meanwhile, my skepticism had not been dissipated by our clandestine rendezvous. What skepticism? Well, why should I believe that “Pickpocket from Paris since 13 year old” is who he says he is? He could be any old leg-puller with a sense of humor. Pierre’s second letter admitted “yes i also speak english , litle just for my job ( rires [laughs] ),” though most subsequent letters were in French. In his third letter, Pierre claimed to work in a car factory during the week, pickpocketing only on weekends and holidays.

If true, he’s a man on the grid, with a reputation and a job to protect. He’d be much cagier than a full-blooded thief who owns up to his livelihood. More careful. More fearful of entrapment, with more to lose.

On the other hand, he’d described some pretty sophisticated M.O.s in his letters and at our cafe meeting. The man definitely knows what he’s talking about. We were all three eager to see his demonstrations, and how he works with his partner.

Kun arrived early at our hotel. He’d slept little, he said, excited by yesterday’s meeting with his first pickpocket. He’d carefully packed his equipment and was ready for the first shoot on the project. We were ready to go when Kun’s phone buzzed.

Pierre sent a text message. Sorry, something’s come up. Have to cancel today.

Oh, what disappointment! We scared him off, we said to ourselves. No, he’s just busy, we tried to convince each other; he told us his parents were visiting from abroad. Why so vague then? Should we call him? Email him? No, let’s wait.

“It’s funny to say, but I actually trust this guy,” Kun said. “He’s emailed for months, he phoned twice to confirm our meeting yesterday, then he showed up 45 minutes early. He bailed today, but I think he’ll come through.”

“My take’s different,” Bob countered. “They’re nervous that they’ll be recognized on television. They have regular jobs, and their work will be in jeopardy.”

Later, Pierre called. “My friend wants money to talk.” We can’t do that, Kun insisted. Then it’s over, Pierre said. Kun consulted our producer, who approved small consulting fees for Pierre and his friend. Negotiations began and tensions rose. Pierre, we sensed, was being pressured by his partner, who had no relationship with us, no reason to cooperate. The partner, too, was on the grid—he drove a bus, Pierre had said.

Eventually, an agreement was reached. We thought. That’s what Pierre and his friend said. We had a deal. Then they canceled. Pierre didn’t return our phone calls. Our email bounced.

Pierre was history. Welcome to the world of thieves.

France paris pickpocket thieves

“Pickpocket from Paris since 13 year old”

The Parisian pickpocket allowed himself to be photographed from behind.

“Dear Bob,
My name is Pierre. I’m 33 years old and I have worked as a pickpocket in Paris since the age of 13.”

We received this intriguing email (in French) in October 2009. It ended with an invitation to meet in Paris in order to exchange stories and anecdotes.

Over the course of 44 additional emails, “Pierre” told us about himself and his work. He claimed to have a graveyard factory job. Pickpocketing was a sideline, he said, but one he took seriously. He used to do his thieving in the Paris Metro, but now works strictly out of town. The laws changed recently, he explained, making it easier for police to pick up and hold known offenders.

In November, Pierre wrote that he and a partner would be going to a huge farming expo in Brussels. Neither Pierre nor his partner are involved in farming, of course.

In December, he attached a photo to his email, captioned “a memory from Brussels.” Fingers grasping a wallet.

Eventually Bob and Pierre spoke at length on Skype (without video). We decided to visit Paris. Not just to meet Pierre, of course; but the rendezvous would be a bonus.

Coincidentally, we are in the beginning of a documentary film project. Not the beginning, really, as the idea germinated exactly four years ago this month. But we have finally begun shooting. We have a first-rate film director, Kun Chang (the driving force behind the project); a mighty production house; and the world’s best-regarded multimedia company as primary investor and distributor. (We’ll formally announce the project soon.) Our film director spent the week in Paris with us.

Pierre picked the place for our meeting: a brasserie called Au Canon de la Nation. We walked over early for a quick lunch. Could this part-time-Parisien-pickpocket possibly know that canon is criminal parlance for pickpocket in the U.S.? The in-joke gave us a little laugh as we took chilly terrace seats on our first day in the City of Light-fingers, wondering if our thief would show up.

He was 45 minutes early! Is that eager, or what? Tall and elegant in a black blazer, briefcase in hand, Pierre wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in any situation. He is what I call a “gentleman thief:” one who can insinuate himself among people of means without looking out of place.

He arrived with a gift: a copy of the book Pickpockets!, by FranÃ§ois Abjean. The author was a formidable pickpocket cop in Paris, who arrested Pierre in 1993. The book was stolen from a library, of course. [Update 6/28/10: Pierre wrote today, offended by this reference to the book being stolen. He bought it on the internet, he explained.]

We talked for an hour over a thimble-sized espresso—proving the frivolity of the bottomless American coffee mug. Kun, our director, translated—proving the deficiency of Google translations and Bob’s schoolboy French.

We all planned to meet again the next day. Pierre would bring his partner, who had already agreed to meet us. Kun hinted to the possibility of filming the thieves, and handed over a bag of disguises from which the two could build new looks. Pierre smirked at the plastic glasses and fake mustaches, but thought it was feasible, as long as his and his friend’s identities were protected.

This was a good beginning for our week in Paris and a promising start of our film project. Bob, Kun, and I left Au Canon de la Nation on a high. Was it just the coffee?

Stay tuned…

France paris pickpocket thieves

Stolen purse leads to worse

Ms. Shopper’s in the store when her kid has to pee. While she’s helping the little one, her purse is stolen from the store restroom. She put it on the floor, hung it from the hook, left it on the stroller, whatever. Now it’s gone. She reports it to the store manager and goes home, distraught.

At home she gets a phone call. It’s the store. They’ve got her purse. She packs the little one into the car and drives back to the store with relief and apprehension. What will be missing from her bag?

Dragging the kid, she marches into the store, finds a manager, and expresses her gratitude, relief, and apprehension, all at once.

“We didn’t find it,” the manager says.
“But you phoned!”
“We didn’t.”

Ms. Shopper goes home, rattled.
Yep. Her house has been burglarized.

con purse robbery scam theft thieves

How to steal a Rolex off a driver’s wrist

When we interviewed Luciano in Naples, Italy, our translator, a Napolitano, explained how Rolexes are stolen off the wrists of drivers in the summer.

The team targets expensive cars and scopes out the drivers’ watches from the vantage point of a motorcycle. It’s hot. The windows are up and the air-conditioner is on. Traffic is heavy, as always in Naples, and there are no such things as lanes. Cars squeeze into whatever interstices exist.

There’s a Mercedes that fits the bill. A scooter slips alongside it; the scooter driver folds down the Mercedes’ side mirror in order to pass, and winds away through the gridlock. The Mercedes driver opens her window and readjusts the side mirror with her left hand. That’s the moment another scooter zooms up, rips the Rolex or Cartier or Piaget right off the extended wrist, follows the first scooter between stagnant cars, and disappears into an alley.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

Italy Naples Rolex thieves Travel Advisory

Don’t let the bed bugs bite!

A ventral view shows the bedbug's piercing-sucking mouth. Look between the antennae where it starts, and goes to the right, midway between the red eyes, projecting up. The small dark spots at the edges of each abdominal segment are the breathing pores called spiracles. Â© 2010 Lenny Vincent

Bed bug on fingertip. © 2010 Lenny Vincent

Violent sex in hotel rooms may or may not excite you, but it’s happening more and more often these days. “Traumatic insemination” is the correct terminology for the savage act these male perpetrators perform.

Yes, I’m referring to bed bug reproduction, and it’s probably occurring in a bed near you. Hopefully, not your own. Hopefully, not one you’ve slept in.

Given the number of nights I stay in hotels every year (200+), this concerns me. I know that mosquitoes are attracted to me, but I’m not aware of having slept with bed bugs. Now that infestations are pretty much exploding across the country, I worry about the possibility, but not in an obsessive way. I don’t inspect hotel beds, for example, though maybe I should.

I’m not just worried about being bitten. I’m afraid of bringing the parasitic hitchhikers home with me, in my clothing or luggage.

The entomologist in my family shared this little zinger from a fellow bug man who travels a lot (but probably not as much as I do):

…when I stay in hotels, all my luggage immediately goes into the bathtub. I don’t drop any clothes on the bed. One of the experts in bed bugs who does a lot of traveling said that he has now found bed bugs in 4 of the hotels where he stayed. He also takes everything that can be thrown into the dryer as soon as he gets home and runs the dryer for about 20 minutes. Another thing to do is bring giant trash bags with you on trips. When you get to the hotel, break out the trash bag, put a piece of luggage in each bag and seal it whenever you aren’t actively dipping into the luggage. It isn’t fun but getting an infestation of bed bugs in your home means all new furniture, rugs, drapes, etc. It is a very expensive treatment and you lose lots of stuff.

(The bug scientist quoted above prefers not to be named.) First I’d ask him: what kind of hotels do you stay in? But that would be naive, because any bed can get them if a bed bug-carrying human or animal has been in it.

The insect we’re talking about, Cimex lectularius, is a wingless external parasite that feeds only on blood, says entomologist Lenny Vincent. It only needs to feed about once a month, but adults can survive over six months without a meal. And the female can lay some 540 eggs during her lifespan.

When I was a child, my parents put me to bed with the same comforting verbal-barbiturate every evening: “Night-night… sleep tight… don’t let the bed bugs bite!” I believed bed bugs were some sort of mythical creature, like tooth-fairies and goblins and bambianikins; fictitious characters to smile about and dismiss.

And to some extent they were fictitious; at least in the U.S., bed bugs were pretty much history, thanks to DDT. Had I known as an eight- or ten-year-old kid that tiny bed-dwelling critters that dine on human blood actually existed, I would have been up all night, or screaming with nightmares. But DDT went away in 1972, and foreign travel increased, bringing new infestations. Now, bed bugs are back.

Back to bed bug sex for a minute. Males are attracted to the scent of a well-fed individual (bug, not human) of either gender. An accosted male will send out a scent signal indicating that he’s not fair game. When the male finds a female, he plunges his aedeagus (penis) into her belly, without bothering to find a proper entry point. Hence the term, traumatic insemination. My guess is that the female vows never to mate with that guy again! You’ll soon learn, little miss bug: they’re all the same….

As awful as a bed bug-infestation-brought-home sounds, I can’t examine every hotel room and bed for bugs. I can’t imagine storing luggage in the bathtub—not all hotel rooms even have bathtubs—nor can I imagine the hassle of the plastic bag wrap. But I may live to regret my laziness. I should take it from an entomologist.

Think you’ve got ’em at home? For $350, you can call in trained dogs to sniff them out with 96% accuracy.

People can look up and report sightings and infestations at The Bed bug Registry, though claims are not verified.

New York City’s serious infestations have prompted the publication Preventing and Getting Rid of Bed Bugs Safely.

Pest control companies are hawking heat treatments. One provides a bed bug-baking service for any size space. Four hours at 130° does it, they say. Maybe less. Confidentially. So your neighbors (or other hotel guests) don’t know you’ve got bed bugs.

Perhaps even you can smell them. Bed bugs are said to smell like cilantro and unripe coriander seeds. Or, the other way around: “The very name coriander is said to be derived from the Greek word koris, meaning bed bug. The foliage of the plant, and its seeds in the unripe stage, have an odor which has been compared with the smell of bug-infested bedclothes.” The Oxford Companion to Food, 1999.

3/11/17: Edited to add a great resource, more than you ever wanted to know about bed bugs, on the site of nonprofit org Tuck, which is devoted to sleep.

bed bugs hotel travel

Neither courteous nor honest

“I loved your show.”

Bob and I both had our mouths full of Roquefort and pears and sourdough croutons. We raced each other to swallow awkwardly in order to answer. The man stood at our table expectantly and watched us chew. One of us finally managed a polite reply.

“You’re really good at reading people,” the man continued, and went on, full of praise and compliments. He was referring to a routine in our show in which Bob analyzes the personalities of five or six audience members. It had gone especially well that night and the man was raving about it. Bob and I set our knives and forks down and smiled up at him while he recalled “a similar show” in which a woman’s brassiere was ripped off.

We detest the comparison to this goofy magician’s coup, but we nodded and smiled some more. Our courtesy encouraged him. He gestured with enthusiasm, sloshing a bit of red wine onto the table. I folded my hands in my lap and realized the bouillabaisse would arrive before we finished our first course.

The man was now relating how he was almost pickpocketed once, long ago. Oh, you’ll like this story, he promised, and asked permission to sit down. Sure, we had to say, but my smile was thin. The man launched into his ancient near-catastrophe. Just as he was getting to the good part, how he foiled the theft before it ever happened, his wife arrived at our table, wine in hand.

“Oh, he hasn’t imposed himself, I hope,” she said. “Shelly, why are you sitting at their table? They’re trying to have a nice dinner.”

“I’m not bothering them, we’re having good conversation!” he said jovially. “They look conservative but I bet they like to get wild! We can join you, if you like,” he suggested. “I’m sure the waiter wouldn’t mind moving our plates! And a bottle of wine, please!” He gestured to a hovering waiter.

“Of course we won’t do that, Sheldon! Get up right now and let’s leave these people alone.” The woman turned to me. “I’m very sorry, he must be a little drunk.”

“Not at all! Sit down, Phyll. I’ll tell the waiter.” The man rose.

“Shelly, don’t be rude. You can’t just—”

“You’re welcome to sit,” I finally said, “just please don’t stand over us arguing.”

That was all it took. The couple’s cold, half-eaten meal was quickly brought to our table and Bob and I picked up our silverware. At least we didn’t have to say much. The man was full of stories and his wife supplied timely prods. Bob made appropriate replies, dredging up authentic courtesy from some stale reserve. My well was dry.

The bouillabaisse arrived steaming; its clear broth, fragrant with fennel, covered barely-cooked fish. I had the distinct impression that the couple had designed their finagle from the start, despite their bickering role-play. The way the wife sauntered over with her lipsticky wine glass, like a suburban housewife ready for twilight gossip. Why, otherwise, were their plates brought over so readily? And the bottle of wine. They must have cued the waiters. I took another sniff of soup scent and lifted my spoon.

“I know!” the man said looking at me. “Let me read your hand. You’ll love this.”

“He’s really good at it,” his wife said. Silver charms on her necklace flashed as she leaned back anticipating our satisfaction.

“Hold up your right hand.”

I dropped my spoon and limply raised my hand, wondering how long I had to allow this. We’d intentionally taken a table at the back of the restaurant, but that had meant parading through the whole room.

“No, fingers together. Open your hand hard!”

Yes, like a protest, I thought. Enough!, I silently gestured at him. Stop! But he didn’t read my mind or body language. He was going to read my palm and I gave him the pose he wanted.

“I can see right away that you don’t like spending money. Your lifeline is long, but your loveline is broken. You’ve had multiple relationships, yes? Or you will.” He stretched to pour me some wine. “I think you like the lifestyle…?”

I gave away nothing with my stoneface. I felt mean and I wasn’t going to let him cold-read me. I took a spoonful of broth, noticing a faint essence of orange peel.

“No, I’m not finished! Hand up!”

I put my hand up obediently and tuned out as the man droned on. My anger brewed and my tolerance withered. We’re often interrupted at meals, but most people are polite enough to keep it brief. And how many simply forego interrupting our meal at all?

“isn’t he wonderful?” the wife was saying. “Is he right? Isn’t he exactly right?”

“You’ve said a lot,” I offered, “and it was remarkable. I’ll have my dinner now, before it gets cold.” I wished for once that Bob would tone down his manners. He was too gracious about the intrusion. As always just after a show, he was high on endorphins, talkative. I was the only sourpuss.

I imagined the accidents that could occur with shellfish in broth. How well could I aim a recalcitrant mussel shell? I’ve splashed myself enough times to know how to orchestrate a brothy geyser. Or, the crab claw—might it squirt when I straighten the joint? Amusing myself this way made me feel a little better. What the hell, we were in it. Can’t change the situation now.

“This is only the second time he’s read someone’s hand,” the wife said. “Really, he doesn’t do it all the time. I don’t know what made him do it. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Are you hot?” She waved her hand in front of her neck, then lifted her silver necklace, as if it to let air under it, or to dislodge it from sweaty skin.

And of course, calling attention to her delicate chain made me notice the oddness of its four silver charms. They were two identical male gender symbols, and two identical female symbols.

Bob and I worked on our soup while the couple egged each other on with their stories. I guzzled the Chardonnay, thinking another bottle would be fair compensation.

The couple was not particularly obnoxious. The man, Sheldon, had certainly behaved badly when he imposed himself and then his wife. He didn’t notice (or ignored) my discomfort when he insisted on reading my hand. So he had poor judgment. Or was a little drunk. A life-of-the-party type, he’s probably accustomed to spicing up dull conversations. Full of himself, though, he failed to pick up our signals.

Maybe we failed to pick up his, too. Was this some sort of pitch or come-on? Did we miss some subtle clues embedded in Edward’s hand-reading blather? Maybe I should have paid attention.

Bob and I excused ourselves before dessert, preempting the invitation I now think would have been inevitable. But we’ll never know what Phyll and Shelly were plotting or what activities they had in mind.

I often struggle with the choice between courtesy and honesty. I’d like to practice both, but sometimes the two are mutually exclusive. In this situation, I was neither. And I hated it. Honesty was not called for, but I should have been able to dredge up some grace, if not courtesy.

behavior body language corporate entertainment Entertainment

Hotel oddity #8

Ever stay in a hotel that tried to make you feel guilty about using the amenities? The beautiful Excel Hotel Tokyu at Tokyo’s Haneda airport pushes hard against guests’ heartstrings with all the hot-button words: forests, children, money, save, environment.

In order to help the global environment, we have implemented our “Green Coin” program. We are asking our guests to return “Green Coin”, which is attached to this card, to the front desk when the amenities in your room have not been used.

Our “Green Coin” will hopefully decreases the amount of disposable amenities used in all Tokyu Hotels.

The more coins we are able to collect from our guests, the more money we will donate to the OISCA Foundation’s “Children’s Forests” program and “Tokyu Hotels Green Coin Forests.

Am I bad if I shampoo my hair?

hotel odd

Hotel lobby luggage theft

[dropcap letter=”N”]o thanks, I’ll carry that bag myself,” Marianne Crossley said to the porter as she stepped out of the London black cab, “it’s too valuable.” She handed a fistful of pound sterling to the driver, hefted her designer tote, and followed the porter into the cool marble lobby of the Langham Hilton Hotel.

Elegance embraced her. Marianne straightened her posture. The Langham was exclusive. She was privileged. She imagined herself belonging to the “UC,” as she thought of it, English Upper Class. Her entire European vacation would be the height of luxury; the black cab and Langham lobby were just the beginning.

Marianne chatted brightly with the reception staff as she checked in, a fresh veneer of energy covering the exhaustion and jetlag of her journey. Emotionally, she had already slipped into something comfortable, something contrived, perhaps a bit pretentious. Cloistered within the confines of the lobby, she felt protected, shielded from the rudenesses of the real world.

You know what’s coming. Marianne took her room key in one hand and reached for her tote with the other. It was gone.

The Langham’s two lobby cameras caught the crook, but the video was not monitored by security officers and was only viewed after the fact. When the larceny was discovered and the tapes reviewed, an interloper could be seen in Marianne’s proximity; but the front desk blocked the camera’s view of the tote. Neither the hotel, nor the police, recognized the suspect as a known thief.

Hotel lobbies are common sites of bag theft. To the guest they offer a false sense of security, with doormen in their guard-like uniforms, desk clerks facing outward, and bellmen looking after luggage. In reality, most anyone can enter a lobby, and who’s to say whether or not they have legitimate business in the hotel? At peak hours, reception staff are harried and the lobby swirls with the incoming, the outgoing, guests of guests, and lookyloos.

Some small hotels keep their entrances locked and visitors must be buzzed in, but many of these have no security staff or video surveillance. Large hotels, with shops and restaurants open to the public, may have guards and cameras but are as exclusive as a post office: anyone can come and go without suspicion. Which are safer?

There is no answer to that question. The responsibility for personal belongings is the traveler’s—period. We may give our luggage to bellmen and that is fine; but if we don’t, or if we have a carry-on, a roll-aboard, a purse, or anything we prefer to handle ourselves, its safekeeping is our responsibility. Hotel staff don’t know whose is whose or who belongs to whom. Perhaps a Langham employee saw a man take Marianne’s bag. Perhaps he assumed the man was Marianne’s husband.

The Langham is not particularly prone to lobby lifts, and neither did it suffer a rash of them. Perhaps an opportunist overheard Marianne’s general announcement in the portico that her bag was “too valuable” to entrust to a hotel employee. Perhaps not.

Marianne was luckier than most victims. Her bag was found intact by a London businessman who went to the trouble of phoning her home in America. Relatives there told him where she was staying and he personally delivered the bag to her, refusing a reward or reimbursement for the international phone call. Only cash had been taken from Marianne’s bag. Yet, in the interim days, she’d had to replace her passport and airline tickets, cancel her credit cards, arrange to get cash, and file a police report.

If the Langham were on busy Oxford Street, this lobby lift would make more sense. But it’s not; the Langham is on a relatively quiet street several blocks off Oxford. Hotels smack on a main tourist drag have many more lobby thefts; those on La Rambla, in Barcelona, come first to my mind. But if it can happen at the Langham, it can happen anywhere.

And if it can happen in seemingly-safe Scandinavia, it can happen anywhere. Certain frequent visitors during Stockholm’s summer season have been dubbed “breakfast thieves.” They don’t steal breakfast; they lurk on the fringes of sumptuous buffets at upscale hotels, waiting for a moment of inattention.

“They lie in wait for a businessman to fetch a second glass of orange juice,” said Anders Fogelberg, head of the Stockholm police department’s tiny pickpocket detail, “and in that instant of opportunity, they and the businessman’s laptop, briefcase, or mini-computer skip out the door.”

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Four: Hotels: Have a Nice Stay

hotel lobby luggage theft thieves

PICKPOCKETS, CON ARTISTS, GANGSTERS, THIEVES, AND TRAVEL