Beach bag theft

Alicante beach

Alicante beach

I met the elderly British victim moments after her bag was stolen. She’d been sitting on the beach in Alicante, Spain, eating potato chips. Her bag was right beside her. She lowered her head for a moment, just long enough to stare at her watch—she can’t see a thing without her glasses, which were in her bag. In that moment, her bag was taken.

It was 2 p.m. on her last day in Spain.

As I walked the woman to her hotel spa where she hoped to find her husband, she tried in vain to keep the tears from flowing. She was in a panic about her glasses and getting through airports without them. I had to brief the husband, because by then the woman had lost her composure.

A policeman had written down the address where the woman could go to file a report. Do you think she’ll get in a cab and go? No, I don’t either. If anything, she’ll find a quickie glasses shop and get some distance lenses that will see her safely home. She won’t get the bifocals like those she lost, though.

Alicante

The cop said he’d guess there are about five reports a day of beach bag theft. We know the elderly Brit who can’t see isn’t going to file a report. What about the twenty-something with her boyfriend? The two guys on the prowl? The cruise ship passenger who has to be back onboard at 4:00? How many will file police reports?

The beach-shack soda-seller thought he’d recognize five or six of the area’s regular bag thieves. Are there more? How many bags does each steal in a day?

The cop defined the technique as he understands it. The perp targets a bag and creeps close with his towel or blanket. He waits for the bag’s owner to move away. He covers the bag with his towel or blanket and makes off with the hidden treasure.

Not rocket surgery.

Not the only way, either. Look at our poor British victim. She didn’t leave. She didn’t nap. She just looked away.

Bags. Like wallets and smartphones, they have legs.

© Copyright 2008-2012 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Yet another generic paradise

Yet another generic paradise.
Yet another generic paradise.

Paradise is paradise, I’m not complaining. Lunch in Naples, Florida Tuesday was a delight. You know: balmy breezes, swaying palm trees, gentle surf lapping at the soft, white-sand fringe of manicured gardens… The meal was vaguely Asian, with coconut this and pineapple that, good fresh seafood, and creative seaweed garnishes.

Yet another generic paradise.
Yet another generic paradise.

Two days later, some 5,000 miles away, same-same lunch in Maui was an equal pleasure. But look at my views: which is which?

Who designs paradise, anyway? And where do they get their plans? The little grass hut and tiki torches, seashell motif… I remember many years ago listening to a Finnish friend describe his fantasy. It contained the elements of these photos, exactly as generic, as soulless. Paradise packaged.

Still, I’m not complaining.
©copyright 2000-2009. All rights reserved. Bambi Vincent