A serious security-risk, especially when cavorting with thieves. Stash in pickpocket-proof underwear.
NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. We take the tram to Circumvesuviana train station to meet Michele, with whom we intend to go find Luciano. Michele is late, stuck in traffic, so we go look for Luciano ourselves. The market is gorgeous, in a lively, primitive way. I’m not much use looking for Luciano if I’m ogling lush mounds of vegetables, shallow round trays of exotic shellfish in constantly freshened water, whole huge fish, and octopuses in five sizes. But we’re surprised to actually find Luciano and his cigarette stand. We had no idea what to look for: a shop? a kiosk? All we knew was that he sold cigarettes in the market somewhere.
We find him between the cabbages and bread loaves, across from a table of bras. His “stand” turns out to be a 15 x 20-inch tray containing 25-30 cigarette packs, which is set on an upturned carton. The cigarettes must be counterfeit or stolen, but we don’t know and we don’t ask. We wonder how he can make a living selling this small-profit item in such small numbers. Is it a front for something else?
Luciano is 63 now but he doesn’t look it. He didn’t look like 48 back when we first met him. His hair has almost no gray and his face is smooth, but his eyes are small and sad. I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see us or if he had an underworld heads-up. He introduces us to his wife and she mans the stand while he takes us to get coffee. We clown around a bit with the bartender, who recognizes us from the film. Luciano won’t allow us to pay for the coffee. As always, conversation with him is severely limited without a translator. We leave him at his stand and go wait for Michele at the train station.
Luciano speaks through Michele for hours. He’s taken aback when I remind him that we first met 14 years ago. He reminisces about our past meetings, including details I thought he’d have forgotten. Like the time he ran from us when we found him at work on a tram, then stopped, remembering us four blocks away and waiting for us to catch up.
Now we learn that Luciano was the first in his gang to start pickpocketing; that he was taught by Massimo Leo (not his real name), who is lionized as the best in town (and therefore the world). Massimo Leo is 56-58 now; in jail—or not, depending on who’s talking. In the beginning of his career Luciano made a lot of money. He bought a nice house, a car, good clothes, and luxuries. His friends saw him with all these things and wanted to join the trade and work with him. Eventually, he got sucked into gambling and lost everything.
Luciano lives just two minutes’ walk away. Bob wants to see his home and, more than that, he wants to meet Luciano’s brother Angelo. Luciano says come back at 5:30, Angelo will come.
NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. At Osteria Tonino, a small family restaurant, we were seated with friends of the owner who recognized us from the film. After lunch, the five of us went to a coffee bar where Bob and I got luscious little pastries. The couple made fun of my tiny sips and bites, explaining that in Naples, people eat the pastry in one bite and down the coffee one gulp (which is especially tiny in Naples—always ristretto). When I turned back to the bar for my next sip of coffee, the cup was gone. Everyone laughed. You pick it up—put it down: done. The bartender made me another coffee when he was realized I hadn’t finished it.
The trattoria Nennella has been repeatedly recommended to us. In preparation for going to this restaurant in the infamous, dangerous Quartieri Spagnoli, Bob carries nothing. I remove even my wedding band. Looking at the wrinkled white finger-skin, I imagine getting mugged and, showing my ring finger, saying “hey, your competition already got me, even my wedding ring.” Only three blocks into the ancient quarter, the buzzing scooters are nerve-wracking. There’s a certain freedom in carrying nothing, but the pickpockets and muggers don’t know we have nothing. Or almost nothing; I have credit cards and a little cash in my pickpocket-proof underwear. [I know I appear to be over-cautious. It looks worse in print, and sounds ridiculous after-the-fact, when nothing has happened.]
But—it’s Sunday. Nennella is closed. A nearby group of people recommend La Pegnada, a few blocks away. It has no character but good food: penne alla sciciliana (con melanzane) and frito misto (squid and shrimps). Pulcinella is mounted high on the wall. Leaving the restaurant we bead directly for Via Toledo, the street that borders Quartieri Spagnoli and is comparatively safe. It’s mobbed with christmas shoppers, tangibly festive.
Between meetings, our goal is to find Angelo, a pickpocket we’ve known more than ten years. His phone number is no longer valid (of course), so we’ll try to find him through his brother, Luciano (whom we first met 14 years ago). Luciano, we know, retired from pickpocketing a few years ago. Both brothers were in our film. Angelo’s the one who wowed us with that beautiful, poetic line at the end: “Bob. You and I do the same thing. The difference is: you make people laugh; I make them cry.”
NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. Everywhere we go, people recognize Bob from the film. They stop in cars in the street (1:30 a.m. last night it was the only way we managed to cross the busy street), pop out of shops, ask for photos, approach us in restaurants. We’re amazed!
This afternoon we’re to meet Michele, who was sound man on our film and, more importantly, translator extraordinaire. He’s from Naples but now lives in London, and he’s flown in to spend three days with us before christmas with his family. He’s also arranged a meeting for us with two filmmakers, one of whom wrote the screenplay for a renown crime film.
Still no luggage and I can’t continue to walk long distances fast in these heels. I buy some flat boots for the sake of speed and endurance on the rough stone streets. Later, I also succumb to a pair of frivolous shoes. Italy—what can I say.
We grab a late lunch before our 5:00 meeting with Michele. We haven’t seen him since the film shoot in September ’10, more than two years ago—but it’s like yesterday. He is sweet, smart, and always good company. As to working with a criminal element, he’s the best. The thieves like him. They trust him. I think he softens Bob’s prickliness, too. We catch up in the hotel lobby for a while before leaving for our appointment with Franco.
Michele has a car (parked miles away—thank goodness for the boots!) and drives us to Franco’s, where we’re to have dinner with his family. Franco was the main pickpocket in our NatGeo film, the thief we’ve been exchanging long emails with for two years. We went to his house for dinner a year and a half ago (with another translator).
Michele drives us in his family’s old rickety car. Even so, he’s concerned about leaving the unattractive car on Franco’s street, such is the neighborhood. Franco opens the heavy gate to his apartment complex and locks it behind us. I imagine all his neighbors feeling safe inside—locked in with a thief.
Franco had asked us not to talk business in front of his young children because they don’t know his job. He said we’d go out after dinner to talk thievery stuff. First, he shows off the apartment, which had undergone major remodeling since our last visit, much of which was done by Franco himself.
The apartment is almost unrecognizable. A long stone bar now divides the kitchen. (They call it the “American bar”—why? paid for from an American wallet?) There’s new built-in cabinetry, a wall closed where there had been a door, the door moved to the other side of the room, a closet turned into a passage, etc. It’s all beautifully done. The boys’ room is full of slick built-in furniture, bunk beds, desk, flat screen tv, computer, etc. It’s spotless, and the tan color-palette is calm and mature.
The living room flat screen tv is gigantic. They leave it on during our entire visit, even though the dining table is right in front of it. A wifi router blinks on a shelf. Franco builds large, complicated model ships. Two are on display in glass cases in the living room. I remember one of them being half-built last visit. Franco is good with his hands in more ways than one.
Bob and I are both dying to take photos but, out of politeness, we refrain. The family lives very well. They aspire to an upscale life. Franco must work hard to acquire such luxuries. Or maybe he just works the credit cards.
Eight Margherita pizzas are delivered for dinner. No silverware is offered. Bob and I follow suit when each member of the family folds the lid of his individual pizza box underneath. Michele can barely take a bite since he’s translating everything that’s said by everyone. After dinner, Franco brings out a giant album in a gorgeous leather box which documents his childrens’ recent first communion. The album is beautifully printed, like the ultimate Apple book. After we slowly go through it and admire every photo, he brings out another album-in-a-box. This one is his and his wife’s recent 25th anniversary church ceremony and party.
They’re a stable, upwardly-mobile, almost-ordinary middle-class family. All good-looking and likeable. It’s only Franco’s job that’s objectionable; but is it any worse than a cigarette company executive’s? There are many repugnant jobs, many of which must be held by likeable people. I can like Franco, but not his job. That’s proven.
Bob, Michele, and Franco disappear into a bedroom to talk. The wife has slipped away. I’m left with the children, who struggle to ask me questions using sign language, their limited English, and Italian, of which I speak none. Hopeless. Eventually I grab Bob’s MacBook Air, fire up Google Translate, and we suddenly have all the conversation we want. It’s excellent—though eerily silent.
It’s past midnight by the time we leave the house with Franco. We stand out in the street talking for another 45 minutes, scooters continuously buzzing close by. Michele only tells us later, on the way home, how nervous he was standing there, especially knowing Bob was loaded with computers and cameras hanging from his neck. On a deterrent-scale, neighborhood-resident Franco might not outweigh juicy-target Bob. Still, nothing happened.
Because traffic is crazy in Naples, even after 1 a.m., Michele drops us off in town about a mile from our hotel—against his better judgment, but on our insistence. Driving us to our hotel through choked streets would add another hour to his trip home. I’m nervous, of course, but Bob isn’t. We stand waiting to cross the wild traffic when a car stops and the men inside roll down the window and yell “Bob Arno, you are great!”
NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. POURING rain. 3:30 p.m. and it’s already dark, with gushing rivers flowing through the streets. Our luggage didn’t arrive, so we wear the clothes we flew in. I’m in nice leather boots with heels. Not good for slogging through gushing torrents. Not good for broken up cobblestone streets and cracked pavement. We’re so happy back. Out we go.
We’ve come to explore the possibilities of a second film project, to meet with a renown screen writer, and—as in Pickpocket King—to find the elusive pickpocket Angelo.
Wading through town, we linger at a bus stop and discuss the pros and cons of being seen by thieves so early in our visit. Surely they’ll see us before we see them. We don’t know how they’ll react since the broadcast of our National Geographic documentary about them. The Italian version of the film is on YouTube with 140,000 views and almost 1,000 comments; 600 likes, 150 dislikes. How many times was the film broadcast on Italian tv? Do pickpockets look at YouTube? Are they proud of the film? embarrassed? angry?
We watch a few buses come and go, then plod through Piazza Municipio to another bus stop and stand in the dark, in the downpour under our hotel’s borrowed umbrellas (unmarked!), observing. We debate: would pickpockets be out in force targeting holiday shoppers? Or stay out of the rain? We loiter there in the dark, in the deluge, getting the feel of the city and just enjoying being back. The traffic is as wild as ever. The gutters are overflowing with wide, deep rivers, making it impossible to cross the street. I mourn my formerly-fancy aubergine-colored boots.
Next morning we get an email from Franco, the pickpocket in our film we’ve been communicating with these past two years. “So you’re in town! Clay [another pickpocket; not his real name] called me when he saw you in heavy rain in Piazza Municipio last night. I rushed down there but you were gone.”
Word spreads fast! If Clay knows we’re in town, and Franco knows, we can be pretty sure the whole criminal underworld knows. We don’t know their true reaction to the film, except that Franco is very unhappy that it’s up on Italian YouTube and is demanding we get it taken down. I can’t believe the thieves are concerned about being recognized—they’ve been doing what they do for decades. Everyone knows who they are and what they do. The film must have inspired a little pride—and some amount of jealousy.
My boots have dried up perfectly (with a lot of help from the hairdryer). We go out for a stroll, heading for the main train station—a very long walk. We pass through several pickpocket hot spots along the way, but we don’t dally. As we walk, a young man pops out of a shoe store: “Hey! I know you—you’re the guy in the pickpocket film!” In Italian, of course. Bob waves and we keep walking. Later, passing again, we let the man take some pictures of Bob. Strange that Bob would be recognized out of context like that. The film called him an American—there’s no reason he should be noticed at a distance.
Close to the train station the action picks up. We approach a sidewalk three-shell game. The players refuse to speak to Bob—unless he pays them. We walk another block and an iPad is quietly offered for sale. We let the seller give us a complete demo and all the specs. Bob explains he knows all the “pacco man” bait-and-switch tricks and just wants a demonstration of the switch. The thief’s not ready to admit anything, until—Franco zooms up on his scooter and greets Bob and me with hugs and kisses. Franco the pickpocket—his warm greeting instantly gives us street-cred. The pacco man goes boggle-eyed.
If this doesn’t make you drool, well, try the lower photo. Sfogliatelli must be the most exquisite pastry ever invented. Found only in Naples, Italy, unless you know the few secret bakeries beyond that make or import this special treat. The one pictured above is a two-inch giant (but not too much to eat, no!). I prefer the smaller version—then I can eat them twice as often!
The crisp, flakey pastry holds a delicate, aromatic surprise:
a creamy ricotta filling, only slightly sweet, scented with bits of candied orange rind.
Sfogliatelle Mary, the most famous purveyor, doles them out warm, as they should be. Powdered sugar is an option—unnecessary in my opinion. All that’s needed is coffee which, in Naples, is the smallest, darkest, strongest, richest of any I’ve had anywhere. I can’t bring home sfogliatelli, but I always have a pound or two of Caffè Kimbo stashed in my luggage.
Sfogliatelli make me happy. They make me happy to visit this unique part of Italy. I especially like place-specific delectables, and I even like that they must be enjoyed in their native locale.
Oh, I can smell the warm, delicate orange perfume, I can taste it, I can hear the pastry crackle as I bite through the hundred paper-thin layers. But where great things lurk, confusion abounds, waiting to trip us up. Be sure you get “sfogliatella riccia,” and not the vastly inferior, unflakey sfogliatelle frolla. Perfection in a pastry.
It happens. For the most part, it’s rare. At the risk of tempting fate, I’ll admit that we’ve never been victims of hotel theft, though we practically live in hotels (200-250 nights per year for the past 20 years.)
Of course we take some precautions and listen to our own advice, particularly based on our version of the hotel room security check. But travel makes us weary and sometimes we become lax. Laziness is part of reality.
Though I believe in locking valuables into the room safe or alternatively, into my largest hard-sided suitcase, there’s always the security-versus-convenience trade-off to be considered, not to mention the gut-instinct and informed-decision. In other words, a lot of variables. I might start out vigilant, then slack off. In my book, I said:
Electronic access points on the underside of a keycard lock.
I also consider the relaxation factor. If you stay in a hotel for several days, a week, perhaps more, you get comfortable. Maybe you get to know the staff. Maybe you let down your guard. If I were a hotel employee bent on stealing from a guest, I’d wait until the guest’s last day in hopes she might not miss the item. Then she’d leave. Are thieves that analytical? I don’t know. But I like to make a policy and stick with it.
Logical, but idealistic. I can’t say that I always follow my own rules. I get complacent. I get tired of the drill. Constant travel is draining.
A looming threat is door-hacking. For a few bucks, anyone can build a small electronic gizmo that will open keycard locks made by Onity, which are currently installed on millions of hotel room doors around the world. The electronic lock-pick, revealed in July 2012 by hacker Matthew Jakubowski, opens our belongings to yet another potential risk. Perhaps our safety, too.
Fixing or replacing door lock hardware will be expensive, so some hotels have resorted to simply plugging the tiny access port—with a removable plug. Hotel security chiefs tell me that most hotels will do nothing until they get a rash of theft reports. Now, the thefts have begun.
So much personal information on display at quaint, old-fashioned hotels like the one we recently stayed at in Bali. Which rooms are occupied? What are the names of the guests in each room? When did they arrive? When will they check out? Who are they traveling with? Have they paid yet?
A modern hotel wouldn’t give out any of this information. A modern hotel won’t even speak your room number out loud. A modern hotel won’t give a caller a guest’s room number. A modern hotel certainly wouldn’t advertise which rooms are occupied by single women! (Rooms 69, 72, 74, 209, 217 for starters.)
You’re only given one key per room at this hotel, and the key is on a wooden fob the size of a doorknob, meant to inspire you to leave the key at the front desk when you go out. Not wishing to advertise our comings and goings, I detach the key, leave the wooden chunk in the room, put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and keep the key with me.
I’m not sure if the safety deposit box numbers correspond to the room numbers, but I think they do. If so, it’s easy to see who hasn’t bothered to use one.
The hotel is charming, despite and partly because of its old-fashionedness, and despite being called Swastika. (I refuse to allow the Nazis to own this ancient Sanskrit word for the symbol of well-being.)
What the hell happened to the sink? Why is its plumbing all bandaged? Is it insulation in case of a freeze tonight? Are the pipes falling apart? Are they leaky? Anyone have a clue?
I stay in hotels from the top end (George V in Paris, Singita in Kruger) to this dump: Doubletree by Hilton at JFK. Avoid the Doubletree@JFK. Its breakfast is inedible.
“20 tunnels with total length of almost 6000 meters.”
Norway is undoubtedly scenic. Spectacular! Though I travel up and down the country every year or so, I rarely take pictures because a camera just can’t capture the beauty. Cruising is one way to enjoy the grandeur of the fjords and mountains, and breathe the crisp, clean air.
Scenic Norway
A train journey is another way, if you don’t don’t need your pulchritude accompanied by peace and quiet. But look at what this train boasts: “20 tunnels with total length of almost 6000 meters.” Wow. You can travel through some of the world’s most breathtaking landscape via almost four miles of pitch dark rackety fumy ear-drumming tunnels. Is that a selling point?
