Awful sound, isn’t it? Sorry to subject you (if it autoplayed in your browser), but I’m making a point.
This racket was blasting when Bob and I visited the Gare de Lyon police station in Paris. It was created by two young women, one in a cell, the other handcuffed to a wooden bench, where she posed in every ridiculous posture she could contort herself into (not sure why). They both bellowed and sang at the top of their lungs as long as we were there—perhaps half an hour—possibly much longer.
It’s their habit. They make themselves severely unwanted guests, so the police think twice about hauling them in again and again. We never found out what they were arrested for, but their tactic was arresting.
The yelling and wailing in jail is one of the cat-and-mouse games the criminals learn to play to get an advantage, even a momentary tiny one, over the system. You know some of their other strategies: they employ children too young to arrest; they carry an infant, because the mother of an infant won’t be jailed; they cut themselves, because a bleeding arrestee must be taken to the hospital, which takes much paperwork that a tired cop may prefer to avoid, especially one near the end of his shift.
A pickpocket in Lima told us, “If the police catch you, you cut yourself and they release you. They don’t want you if you’re cut and bleeding.”
“John Smith” was driving 180 kph when he realized he’d just blasted through a speed trap outside of Johannesburg, South Africa.
“Knowing the police would come after me, I sped up. When I got around a bend I pulled over, jumped out of the car, and locked myself in the trunk. When the cops pulled up behind me I started banging on the trunk lid, as if I’d been locked in by carjackers.”
Michael-G created his own black bar to be sure his identity would be hidden.
Hamburg, Germany—Undercover pickpocket cop Michael-G is the first person we’ve met who exceeds our own nutcase-level of fascination with pickpocketry.
The day we spent together a year ago was all nuts-and-bolts info-sharing, technique-talking, statistic-rattling, drollness-swapping, photo-showing, video-viewing…. You know, the usual for pickpocket enthusiasts.
Over the years we’ve come to know a few others with extreme interest or knowledge in street thievery. The first may have been Terry Jones in Barcelona, whom we met exactly ten years ago. His observations of the pickpockets and bag snatchers in his own neighborhood led him to compile a loooong page of local street-theft incidents. On the surfeit of simple, opportunistic pickpockets, he’d already come to the conclusion that “there is little in the way of evolutionary pressure to make them improve their methods. The tourists are too many and too unaware, the police are too few, and the laws are too slack.”
A friend of Michael-G's.
The mysterious Monsieur F in Paris is a passionate pickpocket cop who works as “an invisible man;” his identity cannot even be hinted at. As one might expect of a Frenchman, the guarded Monsieur F shares his emotions freely. He tells us that, although his priority is arresting thieves and keeping the public safe, he “sometimes finds victims unfriendly and pickpockets compelling.” For example, when he “arrests a thief with AIDS who has just stolen a purse with ten euros, it is difficult judge the morality…”
We had the great pleasure of introducing Michael-G to Monsieur F, and then heard from both of their delight in their new friendship and information-exchange.
Last week we spent a relaxing day at Michael-G’s tidy, upscale home in a sleepy Hamburg suburb where, over cappuccinos (he’s a first-rate barrista, too), Michael-G’s obsession with all things pickpocket could not be concealed.
His library is extensive, possibly comprising every book and film on pickpockets in existence (including my own book). A life-sized mannequin stands nearby, fully-suited, seven bells sewn to its pockets. Michael-G uses the mannequin in his lectures, but I suspect there’s a little more to the relationship.
A postcard from Michael-G's collection.
He’s taught himself to do a little stealing—for show, of course—so he can entertain and demonstrate at his police presentations. And he runs a website, http://www.taschendiebstahl.com.
Michael-G admits that he lives, breathes, and dreams pickpockets. Bob and I were most impressed by his pickpocket postcard collection. I didn’t even realize such things existed. They’re beautiful, mostly old, and from the world over.
Are there any pickpocket-obsessed painters or cartoonists out there?
The Nocturnal Sting and the Bite
Skansen, Stockholm’s outdoor museum, suffered a nasty spate of pickpocketing incidents one midsummer. Up to eight known incidents a day occurred within the dark confines of the nocturnal animal exhibit, a part of Skansen’s aquarium.
Jonas Wahlström, owner of the Månskenshallen (Moonshine Hall), had an idea. He placed a particularly irritable five-pound Australian beaver rat into the shoulder-bag of an aquarium employee, and had her mingle with visitors at the exhibit.
An earthy smell permeated the cave-like area, and the only light came from the dimly-lit habitats. Visitors tended to murmur softly, as if they might otherwise disturb the animals. Therefore, it was shocking to everyone when a deathly human scream erupted and a heavy animal shot up toward the low ceiling before thudding to the ground.
There was havoc, of course. Visitors screamed and clumped together as far as possible from the hubbub, too curious to flee. When the poor animal fell, the aquarium employee who had been wearing it dropped to the floor and trapped it with her shoulder-bag before it could cause further harm to anyone else or itself. No one saw the man who screamed.
The badly bitten pickpocket left a trail of blood on his way out, and it is a testament to Swedish mentality that he escaped so easily. The trap was laid, the bait was fresh, the exits unguarded.
“You remember that famous movie, the one shot in Naples?” shouted Officer DC. “In this restaurant they filmed that movie. The whole world knows this section of Napoli.” He gunned his motorcycle and he, with Bob on the back, left me in the dust on the back of Officer M’s bike.
DC and M are Falchi—Falcons—two of Naples’ anti-theft plainclothes motorcycle warriors. The squad was launched in 1995 to fight, among other criminals, scippatori, the pickpockets and purse-snatchers who operate on motor scooters. Patrolling the city on souped-up motorcycles, the Falcons fight speed with speed, power with power, and strength with strength.
Our motorcycle excursion through Quartieri Spagnoli was not exactly a wind-in-the-hair power-ride, but it was bracing, a cop’s-eye view and guided tour of one huge crime scene. Hugging the backs of these brawny, spiky-haired, Levi-clad, cool dudes, we felt immune to danger—there, at ground level, but in a protective bubble.
Bob and DC had stopped to talk with a guy on a Vespa as M and I caught up with them.
Officer DC, Bob Arno, and a Rolex thief
“This is AS, one of the best scippatori,” DC said. “He’s an expert with Rolexes.” The cop turned to AS: “These are two journalists from America. They want to interview you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We’re making a touristic tour,” DC said with a sweeping gesture.
“How many Rolexes do you take?” Bob asked. He had a video camera in his hand but it was pointed at the ground.
“In a week? It depends. Where are they going to show this movie?”
“In America. In Las Vegas. Hey—this man is better than you at stealing!”
AS didn’t react. “Are you filming this? Are you filming me and everything?”
“How many watches do you take in a week?” Bob persisted.
“I take maybe ten Rolexes in one week. Hey, I don’t like this movie you’re making. You’re going to show a bad image of Napoli.”
“This guy makes films about crime in all different cities. Quartieri Spagnoli will be famous in America.”
“AS, how much do you get for one Rolex?”
“$16,000 [in US$]. For, you know, the one with diamonds all around.”
“Now we are friends with Bob. We can visit him in America!” Officer DC started his bike.
“Can I call you on the phone?” Bob asked. “Later, when I find someone to speak Italian for me?”
“No, I don’t want to give you my phone number.”
“Bob is okay, we’ve known him for many years.” Translation: give him your number.
“Okay, you can call me. Here’s my number.”
“Why is it different? Is it new?”
“Ah, I changed the SIM card.” Translation: I’m using a different stolen phone.
Bob and I had wanted a good look at Quartieri Spagnoli ever since our unexpected introduction to a trio of scippatori—from behind. We’d heard from other officers that the police don’t even go into this district except in squads of four or more. It was a war zone, they told us. Neapolitans disown Quartieri Spagnoli as other Italians disown Naples.
As we rode through the narrow lanes, DC told us about his symbiotic relationship with AS.
“AS has a lot of respect for me, that is why he gave you his number. He gives me information about the criminals here. We cooperate.”
A Rolex thief and a cop
AS is an informer—he rats on major drug activity. In exchange, the Falchi close their eyes to AS’s vocation. Unless, that is, a tourist comes complaining to the police about a Rolex theft. In those cases, Officer DC can have a chat with AS, and AS can do some digging, find out who did the swipe, and try to recover the item. Not that it always works….
DC stopped his bike to point out some of the quarter’s highlights.
“Look at all the laundry hanging from the balconies. Typical for this area. And here, this is one of the squares where the mob is very big, the Camorra. They all have their own areas and their own crimes—drugs, prostitution, stealing…”
“Do the grandmothers really sit in the upper windows watching for Rolexes?” I asked. It sounded like a myth, but I’d heard many times that theft here was a family affair.
Someone whistled—the piercing, two-finger type.
“That means police,” DC said. “They’re warning their friends that we’re here. Yes, the women sit on their balconies and when they see something to steal they call their sons or grandsons to come by on their scooters. It’s true.” He twisted around to look at Bob. “You must be careful with your video camera. These are gangs of thieves we’re passing and they’re looking at it. They can steal it.”
We paused in front of the funicular, the very one that inspired the classic Neapolitan song “Funiculi, Funicula.”
“Here in Piazza Montesanto there are many pickpockets, near the underground station. They steal many wallets in this area. And the funiculare is here. We have four video cameras watching this Piazza. There’s a lot of drug dealing here, too.”
Most tourists never venture into these areas of Naples’ old town and, but for the threat of theft, it’s a shame. Although we have no excuse to describe them in this book about criminals, most Napolitanos are warm and welcoming toward visitors; Bob and I adore their casual, urbane tradition. With its lively outdoor culture and its heart on its sleeve, Quartieri Spagnoli is the heart and soul of the place I call the city of hugs and thugs.
You want pickpocket statistics? How prevalent is pickpocketing? How many thefts occur in one day in New York, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, Russia? Or at the Rose Bowl Parade, or the World Cup? How many thefts are actually reported? Raise your hand if you think you lost your wallet or phone.
If your wallet is suddenly just—gone!—does your pride make you say that you must have lost it (because no one could steal from me!)? Or does your vanity tell you that it must have been stolen (because I never lose things!)? Is it your nature to accept responsibility or assign blame? On which list should your missing wallet be placed? Lost or stolen?
Pickpockets are an enigmatic breed. Most are never seen or felt by their victims—or anyone else. Mystery men and women (and boys and girls) moving freely among us, they’re as good as invisible. So how can they be quantified?
How many thefts does each commit in a day? How many attempts that fail? How many successes that must be reversed, by handing back the loot or dropping it on the ground when accused?
Do all of these count? How do police reports define them? Larceny? Robbery? Lost property? Do the police reports further break them down into pickpocketing verses bag snatching verses mugging?
I’m often asked for actual statistics. Occasionally, I half-heartedly go looking for some. I’ve learned that this ambiguous crime is not uniformly classified and, of course, not uniformly reported at all.
Pickpocketing is a phantom crime. In many cases, only the perp knows the deed was done. There are no witnesses or evidence; no dead body or weapon—just the lack of some personal property which—you know—could have been misplaced.
To most police except the passionate few, pickpocketing is “petty;” too insignificant for them to take seriously. It’s more paperwork than they want to bother with, especially at the end of their shifts. They throw up their hands. They blow air. And now, it seems, they “downgrade” police reports, chalking up reported thefts to lost-property.
The news is scandalous over at New York’s JFK Airport, where the Port Authority Police Department is allegedly fudging reports:
When laptops and suitcases are reported stolen by travelers, officers are routinely ordered to downgrade the incidents from thefts to merely lost luggage—to keep the airport’s crime stats down and their bosses looking good, sources told the Post.
High theft numbers make people feel unsafe and make the police departments look bad. City administrators want to seem as if they’ve cleaned up crime. But high numbers also help get budget increases for additional personnel. Numbers can be tweaked to fit the day’s whim. It’s all political and arbitrary and very fuzzy. Pickpocket statistics are amorphous.
The New York Post reporter describes the police report filed by a pickpocketing victim:
Kaya Tileu, 26, a resident of the Upper East Side who works on Wall Street, filed a theft report Feb. 22 alleging that his $200 wallet, $300 in cash and credit cards were swiped from inside a JFK McDonald’s.
The original paperwork listed Tileu as a grand-larceny victim. But a Post-it note attached to his police report advised the cop who filed it, “This is a lost property.—Capt.”
Police aren’t counting reported thefts? I didn’t even consider this possibility when I extrapolated the numbers for Barcelona and came up with a whopping “6,000 thefts per day on Barcelona visitors.” I took the police at their word when they reported 115,055 pickpocketings and bag snatches in a recent 12-month period. I started with that number—I didn’t say but wait, let’s increase it to include the victim reports they’re not counting…
Of the pickpocket incidents reported, most, according to a New York cop on the pickpocket detail who wishes to remain unnamed, fall into the “lost property” category. “They don’t even realize they’ve been pickpocketed,” he said. “They think they just lost it.” Incidents reported as thefts are lumped under one of several legal descriptions. Larceny is the unlawful taking of property from the possession of a person, and includes pickpocketing, purse-snatching, shoplifting, bike theft, and theft from cars. Robbery is the same but involves the use or threat of force. The theft of a purse or wallet, therefore, may fall into either of these categories, and usually cannot be extracted for statistical purposes. Similarly, the figures collected under larceny or robbery include offenses this book does not specifically address; shoplifting, for example.
For many reasons, victims don’t always report thefts. Hotels and theme parks and other venues actively discourage them from filing police reports, and incident rates are suppressed. It’s bad publicity for Paradise. It’s terrible for pickpocket statistics. Pickpocketry may be a dirty little secret, but Bob and I know that this petty theft, collectively, is huge.
So give it to me already: Pickpocket Statistics
Yeah. Sorry. Here’s my big conclusion: Catch-22. As long as pickpocketry is considered petty, no one will bother collecting data. And as long as there are no large numbers, the crime will continue to be considered petty. Petty crime—who cares? Even actually reported incidents, which we know are only some fraction of a larger number, will continue to be lumped into disparate broad legal categories, unextractable. Who will expend resources on an element that can’t be counted, a scourge that can’t be seen? Like a virus, pickpockets will continue to lurk invisibly, impossible to eradicate, wreaking their havoc.
In Bangkok, seemingly corrupt police are extorting large sums from foreign visitors. In South Africa, pseudo-cops are stopping drivers and pedestrians, requesting wallets in order to see identification or “search for contraband,” then absconding. In Stockholm, thieves impersonating police lured seniors into give up their PINs at ATMs in the name of “controlling withdrawals.”
This strategy seems to have exploded recently, or at least is being recognized for what it is, or at least making it into the news.
The strategist elite are those who make participants of their victims. Like the Palma claveleras, they’re in your face with a story. Their only goal is to walk away with your wallet. Consummate con artists, they’re the slipperiest, wiliest, and most difficult to detect. Garbed in a counterfeit persona designed to gain your confidence, they lay bait and entrap their prey: usually the unsuspecting traveler.
Fake Police = Pseudo Cops
These strategists concoct ingenious schemes. Who could avoid falling for what happened to Glinda and Greg? They were walking in a foreign park in—well, it could have been anywhere, this is so common—when a gentleman approached them with a camera. He asked if one of them would mind taking his picture, and the three huddled while he showed them how to zoom and where to press. Suddenly two other men arrived and flashed badges. The man with the camera slipped away while the two “officials” demanded to know if the couple had “made any transaction” with him. Had they changed money with him illegally? They would have to search Glinda’s bag; and they did so, without waiting for permission.
“It all happened so fast,” Glinda told me a few days later, “I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t have time to think.” The “officials” absconded with Glinda’s wallet, having taken it right under her nose. In variations on this theme, the pseudo cops take only cash saying it must be examined, and they may even offer a receipt. Needless to say, they never return and the receipt is bogus.
On first impression, the pseudo cops’ scam is believable; their trick requires surprise, efficiency and confusion: they don’t allow time for second thoughts. Theirs is a cheap trick, really. They depend on a fake police shield to gain trust; they can’t be bothered to build confidence with an act. Authority is blinding, and that’s enough if they’re fast. It’s a thin swindle, but it works.
We good citizens are trained from an early age to respect authority. It’s not easy to ask a uniformed policeman for identification, or even a plainclothes officer who flashes a badge. And if we were to request ID, how closely would we scrutinize it? Would we detect a fake? What about identification in a foreign language, Thai for example, or Russian?
What’s the difference, anyway, between a pseudo cop—an impostor—and a legitimate but corrupt official? Both rely on their perceived authority, both act fast (before they’re found out, by the victim or others), both do the shake-down dance in one form or another. We, the good citizens, never see it coming. “It all happened so fast,” one victim told me, “I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t have time to think.” We’re more than victims of crime here. We’re victims of our upbringing, we who are taught to follow rules and obey laws.
Bob and I were accosted by pseudo-cops in Russia. I can tell you, it’s frightening, especially when the scene expands to include additional players. Sydney’s had them, and so has Barcelona. Stockholm’s in the news now with pseudo cops stationed at ATMs frequented by seniors, collecting PIN codes under the guise of “regulation.”
BBC News reports a horrific scam that takes place in the Bangkok airport. A number of travelers browsing the duty-free shops have been accused of shoplifting, put in jail holding cells, and forced into negotiations that amount to police extortion in exchange for their release. They’re being tricked into relying on the advice of a man who seems to be a police accomplice.
One of the victims in this report, Stephen Ingram, was taken by airport security to a police office, put in a cell overnight, then given an interpreter. The interpreter took him (and his travel companion) to a police commander who attempted extortion of over US$12,000 and threatened a prison stay of two months before they’d even get their case heard. After paying a portion of the “bail,” Mr. Ingram and his travel partner were put into a hotel and told not to leave, not to contact a lawyer or their embassy, and cautioned that they were being watched. They eventually escaped and got the their embassy, where they learned they’d been victims of a classic Thai scam called the “zig-zag.”
An Irish woman was subjected to the same scam when she made a small purchase at the duty-free shop. She bought an item of makeup, which the shop clerk put in a bag; a customary practice, right? On leaving the shop she was surrounded by security guards shouting ‘You! You! You go jail six months.” The shopping bag contained an item not paid for. Did she steal it? Did the shop clerk plant it? Did the guards? The woman was held overnight “in filthy conditions,” and eventually had to pay up to free herself and her passport.
In her case, the Irish woman thought she had purchased two items. She paid by credit card but didn’t pay attention to how many hundreds of baht she was charged. Did the shop clerk intentionally charge for only one item, as a set up? Why, otherwise, did security immediately pounce on this customer?
Both of these examples begin with the company called King Power, which runs the airport duty-free shops, and both include collusion by government officials and others. King Power has tried to substantiate some of its accusations with surveillance video, and has three cases “explained” on its website.
In an article in the Irish Daily Mail, Andrew Drummond wrote that in Thailand (where he is based), this is called the “Monopoly scam, ”
not so much because of the high amounts of money involved but the fact that victims…could buy …˜Get out of jail’ cards to escape airport shoplifting charges. These …˜cards’ were letters issued by the local prosecutor and police.
Fake police with false ID at Bangkok airport. How is one to know what's real?
Bangkok airport, it seems, is infested with scammers, corrupt officials, and according to the pictured article, pseudo-cops. There are more horror stories:
Paul Grant and Lynn Ward, both from the UK, separately reported another Bangkok airport scam. In this one, incoming passengers are instructed by a customs officer to put their duty-free items into their checked luggage when they retrieve it from the carousel, and that they should not declare the items, “or they will be prosecuted for smuggling.” When exiting the customs area, other customs agents “discover” the undeclared items, and levy hefty fines or threaten jail. ATMs are conveniently located beside the customs office, or travelers are escorted to machines in order to withdraw the large sums charged.
If you haven’t read this or another warning specifically about the shake-downs in Bangkok’s airport, you haven’t got a chance should you be chosen to be a victim.
52-Pickup—Las Vegas police are suddenly, aggressively, picking up prostitutes in the “resort corridor” of the city. Armed with a deck—or a list, anyway—of our “50 most prolific prostitutes,” vice cops nabbed almost half of them in the first two weeks of the initiative.
Meanwhile, Las Vegas promotes sex, women, and “anything goes” in its siren call to visitors.
Meanwhile, the talks go on about legalizing, or at least decriminalizing, prostitution in Vegas, as in 10 out of our 16 counties.
What is Vegas if not one big hypocritical contradiction? Prostitution creates a “bad image for Las Vegas,” says Metro Vice Lt. Karen Hughes. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, beckon the ads. Barbara Brents, a sociology professor at UNLV, said it best: “It seems pretty hypocritical to me to have an economy based on sexualizing women and then to come down on the women when police want to make it seem like they’re enforcing the law.”
Aren’t there better things for Las Vegas Metropolitan Police to do? Eastern Europeans have invaded and are having a heyday with fraud and id theft. Home invasions are on the rise, too, and are non-consensual, unlike prostitution.
In the Las Vegas Review Journal’s Sunday cover story this past weekend, Hughes said “it’s time to stop the revolving door of prostitution-related arrests, especially when those arrests involve ‘trick rolls.'” Well of course, arrest thieves! Whether it’s a pickpocket, or a prostitute who empties her sleeping client’s wallet, book ’em.
Hughes goes on to say they “want to minimize opportunities for prostitutes to be aggressive with the tourists and with men who aren’t interested in that.” Aggressive sales tactics are annoying, I agree. I particularly detest the loud recorded radio-style ads blasted through hotel speakers onto the Strip. I’m not fond of the hundreds (it seems) of Mexican men and women (they are all Mexican, and they all wear earphones) who shove escort ads at passers-by, whether they’re interested or not. They create an awful lot of litter, too. And I’m especially irked by the saleskids in the malls who accost passers-by with questions meant to engage, meant to stop a person to create an opportunity for a sales pitch.
Oh, and it’s okay to aggressively solicit porn stars on huge, well-lit billboards.
I haven’t done a survey, but I bet a large proportion of our visitors enjoy temporarily flirting with the naughtiness Vegas cooked up. They can be momentary voyeurs, or daring participants, wannabes, or shrinking lurkers, aghast but rapt. We know one thing: trying to appeal to the family crowd didn’t work, and isn’t what Vegas wants.
Why not legalize prostitution? No one need buy the product unless it’s wanted. Legalize brothels, and no one need see the product unless they want it. It would end trick-rolls. It would be safe for the working girl and safe for the customer. Our mayor, who won’t publicly “advocate it,” says a Little Amsterdam red-light district in Vegas would generate hundreds of millions of dollars for the city.
Otherwise, I’ve got an idea for the pimps. Leave the girls at home. Keep them off the streets, where they’ll just be arrested. Put them in front of a web cam, and show your iPod or iPhone to potential clients. Call her on your cellphone and introduce her to the john. Let them speak. Let her stay safe (and warm, or cool), while you do the soliciting. Just until prostitution is legalized.
St. Petersburg, a few weeks later—We loaded ourselves with video equipment this time, and headed straight for the Metro corner. Having spoken with the gang three weeks earlier, we were afraid to get too close. We wanted to observe them in action without being noticed. I found an excellent location just across the canal from the Metro entrance, a perfect stake-out spot with a convenient cement chunk I could hide behind when necessary. Bob wandered, undisguisable, wishing for a height reduction.
Instant gratification! (No, not Bob getting shorter.) First I noticed two of the gang leaning on the canal wall, watching the heavy flow of people going into and out of the Metro.
A pickpocket gang member on the phone
I recognized others loitering in the doorway and on the street corner. Most of them seemed to get or make frequent phone calls. They often disappeared from view, melting into the crowd, ducking into the station, or being obscured by traffic.
Suddenly, they’re off and running. I follow with my video camera. The victim doesn’t have a chance. Six gang members surround him. It’s impossible to see them all at any one moment, but on the video (see Part 2), you can see them dance around the mark like a Russian ballet. Two men maneuver themselves in front of him, impeding his progress. Four others are behind and beside him. Then, to buy more time, the largest of the team, in the gray t-shirt, spins around and shoves his weight against the victim’s chest and stomach, nearly doubling him over.
It was impossible to determine if anything had been taken. I had to choose who to follow with the camera and I chose to follow the thieves, who quickly dispersed, then regrouped. I don’t know how the victim reacted seconds later. He immediately left my field of vision.
I got another pursuit on film, but it ended behind an ice cream kiosk that blocked my view. I wasn’t far away, but I was stationary, with a canal in front of me. I got lots of shots of the thieves positioning themselves among the crowds crossing the street.
An opposing gang of pickpockets in St. Petersburg
Meanwhile, Bob wandered through the danger zone. He watched other thieves display their well-practiced choreography. They also employed the Russian sandwich, with a dropped piece of paper, a bend, a block, and a partner’s pluck from behind.
Mohammed is fine. He’s recovered from his near-arrest and is friendly with us again. We didn’t dare ask him to interpret for us again. But we met a nice Russian woman at the black market who teaches English…
