Why am I compelled to run outside every time I hear the police helicopter hovering over my house? If there’s a criminal on the loose, isn’t it possible, at least remotely possible, that he’ll run into my yard to hide? My eyes are riveted to the helicopter, but I watch the brick wall, too.
An entertainer friend of mine practiced magic as a kid. One day he went to Busch Gardens amusement park with his family. There he saw an organ grinder with a monkey trained to take coins from people and put them into a cup. My friend, a proud young magician back then, said with a wink to his family “Watch this!” He offered the monkey a coin, but palmed the coin—made it disappear in front of the monkey’s eyes. The monkey went berserk. It shrieked and started slapping the child-magician’s hand. It kept on screeching and looking around wildly until the poor kid, surprised and frightened by the monkey’s reaction, gave up the coin.
Let’s look at the anatomy of a pickpocket victim. I’m thinking of a couple I saw in Barcelona not too long ago. They had the word “gull” plastered all over them, a perfect lesson in what not to do. They were affluent-looking: the woman wore a slinky black dress, a big blonde wig, and garish diamonds from here to there, real or not. Her watch was thin, gold, and diamond encrusted. She carried a designer purse and a recognizably expensive shopping bag. The man wore a floppy black suit, trendy black t-shirt, and a gold Rolex. He carried a large camera bag with a Sony label on it. They stood utterly bewildered, map in hand, staring at street signs. I had an urge to educate them, but what could they change right then and there? I’d only manage to scare them. Bob and I want people to enjoy their travels. We mean to raise awareness, not paranoia.
If this couple were the ideal paradigm of oblivion, they’d plop down at a sidewalk café. She’d sling her purse (unzipped) over the back of the chair by its delicate strap and he’d put his camera bag on the ground beside or under his chair. He would not put his foot through the strap. He’d hang his jacket on the back of his chair. Is anything in its pockets? They’d both relax and watch the people parade, as they should. When the bill arrived, he’d leave his thick wallet on the table in front of him while he waited for change. Eventually he’d realize there would be no change, because he hadn’t counted on a cover charge, a charge for bread, a charge for moist, scented, plastic-wrapped napkins, a built-in tip, and water that cost more than wine.
How many mistakes did they make?
“Tourists are more vulnerable than anyone else on the streets,” Bob says. “And not only because they often carry more money than others. Their eyes are everywhere: on the fine architecture, the uneven pavement, shop windows, the map in their hands, unfamiliar traffic patterns, unpronounceable street signs. They don’t know the customs of the locals and don’t recognize the local troublemakers.
“Con artists and thieves are drawn to tourists for the same reasons. Tourists are unsuspecting and vulnerable.”
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Two (part-f): Research Before You Go
Also read:
•Theft Thwarter Tips
•Pocketology 101
•Purseology 101
•Tips for Women
Had to go to the Apple store in the mall last night, and it turned into a long visit while Bob sorted out some issues with windows on his Mac. I left and wandered around the mall, an activity I normally detest.
It wasn’t crowded at all, despite the time of year. No surprise. What surprised me was the aggressive behavior of the sales people, especially at the kiosks that litter the walkways. A glance at the wares piled on the carts and in the booths, even while on the move, garnered at least a beckoning call. Veering too close guaranteed a come-on. But some sales staff were worse. I heard one man ask a long-haired woman if she used a blow-dryer. The woman wasn’t even looking at his kiosk, just walking past. She stopped and answered the man (positive reinforcement of his behavior).
By the time I’d gone to one end of the mall, I was fed up with being accosted. Walking back, I looked at no one and nothing. I wasn’t grouchy but I probably looked it. I just didn’t feel like being harassed. Then a bright-eyed man took a few fast steps toward me.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asked with urgency, as if I could suddenly enlighten him.
“Absolutely not,” I replied with spirit, not slowing down at all.
The mall in Las Vegas is like being in a third-world market, where every stall owner begs for the attention of passersby. I feel for them. And many of the sales people are from struggling nations. We are now a struggling nation, too. So I guess the hard-sell is the new rule. You don’t want to be rude to the ropers and the barkers. You start off smiling and polite. But after five minutes, or an hour, or a week, depending on your tolerance, it becomes exhausting. Courtesy becomes exhausting.
Lord and Lady Ball (yes, their real names), enjoyed a week in warm Palma de Mallorca, an annual retreat from the dreary London weather. They nimbly dodged the numerous pickpockets, flower sellers, and con artist that live in this paradise, supported by tourist dollars, pounds, euros, yen, etc. But their visit began with a fiasco.
On arrival at the Palma airport, they collected their luggage and piled it onto a cart. Then they pushed the cart out to their assigned rental car in the crowded lot. The way the cars were parked, they couldn’t get the cart close to the trunk of the car. So they left it in front of the car while they opened the doors and the trunk lid. When they turned back to the cart, it was gone. The whole thing was just gone.
Yes, I know. It sounds doubtful. You’d think they’d hear something, or at least see it being pushed off in the distance. But no.
Lady Ball gave a little shout and who should be nearby but a nice, friendly policeman! Just when you need him, right? Strangely, he didn’t have much of a reaction, but he directed the Balls to an airport police desk where they should report the stolen luggage.
So they did. And upon returning to their car, there was their stuff, next to a trash can in the parking lot. Everything of value was gone from inside. The Balls were left with a distinct feeling of fishiness.
They never discovered anything more about the incident. Neither did we.
Palma de Mallorca has long been a favorite holiday destination for Germans, Brits, and Swedes, and for Europeans in general. Many British retire to Mallorca, or have second homes there. Ferries bring daytrippers from mainland Spain, and cruise ships regularly dump sightseers by the thousands to bask in this balmy Spanish paradise. Its beaches and nightclubs are a perennial draw, and have been long before the spotlight hit Ibiza.
Low-lying criminals, too, are attracted to Palma’s easy-going lifestyle and laid-back law enforcement.
Bob and I have spent many a blistering summer day chasing thieves in Palma, a well-stocked laboratory for our research. We’ve been threatened there, and physically assaulted by thieves. Stories of these to come in future posts.
So I wondered: did Mallorca’s prevalent pickpockets plague every tourist attraction? Even underground? With that weak theory to prove, I had excuse enough to join the daytrippers on a journey to the Cuevas del Drach, or Caves of the Dragon, at Mallorca’s eastern coast. Well? If thieves can be nocturnal, why not subterranean? Leaving Bob on downtown surveillance, I set off by coach across the desolate landscape beyond the city of Palma.
The caves contain the largest underground lake in Europe, a superlative that failed to inspire my need-to-see instinct. So I paid for my ticket with minor lethargy and ambled off in the direction vaguely indicated, drawn to the cool, the dark, and the quiet.
A rough path descended gently into a forest of unfamiliar forms. Organic shapes and amoebic ponds in utter darkness were exquisitely lit to dramatic effect by an absolute (probably Italian) master. Disney couldn’t have done as well, and certainly couldn’t have created something so unreal, so otherworldly.
I got quite wet during the twenty-minute stroll into the depths. The surroundings first seemed inspired by Antoni Gaudi—or perhaps vice versa. Around me rose huge, undulating floor to ceiling columns in complicated bundles. Vast expanses of icicles by the millions pointed to curvaceous, humanoid formations below. I felt as if I were inside a giant pin cushion of some undefined shape. Or in the mouth of some great beast chewing taffy. Now, instead of Gaudi, I felt the influence of Dr. Suess. Among looming trunk-like forms the ceiling dripped and spattered and ploinked into puddles and pools. Stalactites and stalagmites were forming as I watched.
The uneven path wound down and around, along crystal clear ponds containing underwater figures—or were they reflections from above?—and eventually to an enormous gallery surrounded on three sides by a lake of such stillness and clarity it could have been air. A number of visitors had already gathered on the peninsula, settling onto wet benches facing Lago Martel and the thick and thin columns growing out of it.
Lights went out one by one and the crowd became silent. We were allowed a few moments to savor the cool void, the faintly clammy air, the crisp smell of absolutely fresh water, the surround-sound of erratic drips, and the unfortunate absence of bats.
Then, far, far in the distance, a violin. Chopin. The music grew, as did a faint glow from the depths of the cave. Finally, still distant, a curved row of fairy lights appeared, doubled by its reflection. It was a small boat encircled by a string of white lights, gliding smoothly as if on a rail. Another Disney effect. The boat carried a small orchestra and a single rower who dipped and pulled his oar like a slow metronome. Chopin became Offenbach as the boat drew near; the music swelled then filled and overflowed what had been a void, an unnoticed nothingness. Ghostly and surreal, the boat slid past us to hover in a small grotto, its single string of bulbs still the only illumination.
The concert ended as it had begun, with the simultaneous dwindling of music and light as the vessel and its orchestra sailed slowly, serenely, out of sight. As the last note sounded, a thunderous applause exploded in the darkness.
Gradually, stalagmites were randomly lit and the audience came out of its collective trance.
“Where’s my purse?” A woman’s panicked voice echoed nearby. I snapped my head around to look for her.
“Here,” said another, lifting dripping, waterlogged leather from the cave floor. I fought an urge to lecture the woman.
A line of rowboats had magically appeared. Visitors rose reluctantly to be ferried across the lake to a path leading up and out of the cave.
I emerged damp, blinking like Gollum, and drunk on the multisensual subterranean experience. While not exactly relevant research on the underground subculture we study, the venture below had been well above my expectations, and a fine respite.
Bob Arno, the go-to guy on street scams, was on the NBC Weekend Today show on November 22.
He was on Fox & Friends on November 29. The video made Yahoo’s top ten of the day.
Both programs show some of our video of thieves-in-the-act, and both are examples of network news soundbite-style segments. They don’t want to know anything about why, just three minutes or so of your best stuff for ratings. Nothing to be proud of, really.
Both videos are embedded below.
I feel like celebrating Mumbai, a city I love to visit.
I’ve stayed in the Taj Mahal Hotel a couple of memorable times and looked out my window at the iconic Gateway to India monument. Looking down from my window at dawn, I watched men squat with tiny coal fires in tin cups, ready to cook a little breakfast for passersby. Or for those waking from a night’s sleep on the plaza. Entire lives are lived out on the Mumbai streets.
At a tea stall in the Colaba district, the chai-walla pours boiled milk onto tea leaves and spices.
After my first and second visits in the comforting embrace of the grand Taj, Bob and I chose more intimate Indian hotels in the Colaba area. Less quality control, more flavor! The neighborhood is a congested, confusing warren of small streets that run into the slums Mumbai is famous for, the kind you can walk in and start a parade of the curious and friendly, not beggars, just those smiley-shy children and adults who want to see what you’re going to do and why.
We got into the habit of buying milky masala chai from a stall near our hotel. The tea-walla always opened a new container of milk and boiled it while we waited. To his generous handful of tea leaves, he added his own mysterious mixture of “warm” spices: cinnamon, clove, cardamom, allspice, black pepper. When the tea was brewed and strained, he poured it into a take-away plastic bag, and off we walked with it, to drink in the mugs in our room.
We’ve had a few meals at Cafe Leopold, too, my favorite of which included curried eggs. Anybody who’s read Shantaram knows that Cafe Leopold is an institution central to social life for expats, locals, and tourists. It’s where the sunny and the shady commingle, knowingly or not.
For a deep look at Mumbai and all things mafia, which is to say all things Mumbai, read Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, by Suketu Mehta. Or better yet, visit the city and see for yourself.
The Hoodwinked show tour was a resounding success.
I’d like to credit the director, Jim Millan, for his vision and clever construction of the production. And con artist Todd Robbins, the brilliant writer and deliveryman of subtle humor, the best of which is stated under his breath, reserved for those paying attention.
Hoodwinked was reviewed at length here and here.
Someone gave it a nice compliment here.
And on Twitter, I saw: “Sun 23 Nov 08 | 02:56 GMT just got home from Hoodwinked, starring Todd Robbins, Banachek, Bob Arno, and Richard Turner. Fabulous! | twitter.com”
Over-confidence is the enemy of travelers in unfamiliar lands. The know-it-all risks loss and embarrassment. Henry started his story with the wistful remark we’ve heard countless times:
“I didn’t think it could happen to me,” he said, shaking his head. “I never even sensed the other guy was near me.”
Henry and Kathy were world travelers. We met them in the third month of their current foreign travel adventure. Only in their forties, they were quite young compared to others with the time and resources for extended travel. Both were physically fit and mentally sharp. To Kathy’s alert, quiet reserve, Henry radiated self-assurance and arrogance.
On this day, as usual, Kathy carried their cash in the deep front pocket of her tight shorts. Henry carried nothing but the plastic boarding card issued to him by his cruise ship.
The couple was standing on a street corner near the souk in Casablanca when a large local man approached. Glancing at Henry’s Blue Jays cap, the interloper leaned into Henry, lightly knocking his shoulder.
“You from Canada?” he slurred, in a drunken act. Henry, always on his toes, second guessed the ulterior motive.
“Keep your hands off me, pal,” he said threateningly.
The stranger backed away and glanced across the street. Kathy followed his look and watched as a second man approached them. He was the big guy’s partner.
“Sorry, I have no use for this,” the partner said, and held out Henry’s boarding card. The couple had never even noticed him near them; yet somehow, he had been.
I like this story for its considerate thief. Most, with hopes of snagging a credit card quashed, would drop the worthless plastic in a trash bin, or more likely on the ground. The notion of a quixotic thief appeals to my wispy romantic being. Luciano, that ever-present menace on Naples’ trams, told us that, since he doesn’t use the credit cards he steals, he drops them into a mail box so they can be returned to their owners.
Had Henry Smartypants read the U.S. State Department’s report on Morocco, he would have known that “criminals have targeted tourists for robberies, assaults, muggings, thefts, purse snatching, pickpocketing, and scams of all types,” and that “most of the petty crime occurs in the medina/market areas….” Perhaps he would have thwarted the thief who snuck up behind him; his antennas would certainly have been up.
If misfortune befalls the unwary and swindlers seek the weak, enlighten yourself and raise your awareness.
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Two (part-d): Research Before You Go
Hoodwinked opened Tuesday night at the gorgeous State Theater in Easton, PA. It was the first show of our five-city east coast tour and we couldn’t be happier with it. Spectacular theater, perfect tech, 1,000 people packed in, all of whom shot out of their seats for an enthusiastic standing ovation.
It was a huge success.
We’re playing Lyman Center for the Performing Arts in New Haven tonight. The tour is only six shows in five cities in five days. Here’s the remaining show schedule.