Display at a tourism safety and security conference.
Bed bugs, we read, are living in hotels everywhere, dining on us. As a frequent hotel guest (200+ days a year for 16 years) I’m surprised that I’ve never noticed them. Mosquitos are attracted to me and I react badly to their bites. But bed bugs—I haven’t run into. Or maybe I repel them.
Kill bed bugs with heat
A large display at the recent California Tourism Safety and Security Conference caught my eye. The company 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.
Ick.
I came across some calceteiros in the process of creating the gorgeous Portuguese mosaic sidewalks.
In time, shoes polish the mosaics to a slippery shine.
In Lisbon, a Carpet of Stone Beneath Their Feet is an excellent article on how calçada (patterned pavements) are made, the history of the mosaic pavements, and Escolas de Jardinagem e Calceteiros, a City school where this unique stone paving is taught. Highly recommended, if you enjoyed my little article.
I’m sure it sounds obsessive to mention the necessity of onboard watchfulness when you fly. The likelihood of theft while on an aircraft is low, granted; but it’s unpredictable, and that’s the problem. If you’re carrying valuables, say cash, jewelry, even credit cards, you may as well continue with your precautions. The risks are to the carry-on items you can’t see: those in the overhead compartment can be ransacked practically under your nose—or above your nose. Those under the seat in front of you are vulnerable if you sleep or leave them while you get up. [Read Kayla’s experience, below.] I want to stress that these are low-probability scenarios, especially if you’re not traveling alone. Your degree of precaution must harmonize with your comfort level and the value of the items you carry.
Sadly, suitcases are occasionally compromised while in the airlines’ possession. The odd unscrupulous employee needs only the moment of opportunity. It’s well-known that most luggage locks are next to useless. Keys are generic, and even combination locks have certain pressure points which free latches.
Halliburton
Bob and I believe in hard-sided luggage. The ones we use are aluminum, made by Zero Halliburton. They’re not for everyone, being both heavy and expensive. But when our bags were forced with a crowbar or other tool somewhere on the nether tarmac of the Miami airport, the locks and hinges held tight. Shiny scars in the seam, as if gnawed by a metal-eating mouse, were the only evidence of serious tampering.
Who’s throwing your luggage around?
As we watch our silvery Halliburtons trundle off toward baggage handlers in Lusaka, in Santiago, in Mexico City, filled with sound and video equipment or perhaps with our favorite shoes from Florence, we’re eternally grateful for and confident in their sturdy locking mechanisms. Even more so after trying desperately and failing to break into our own locked suitcase when it jammed once in London.
Of course bags like these do call attention to themselves and an argument can be made for using inexpensive luggage. One world-traveling couple we met swore by the cheap stuff. After repeated thefts from their Louis Vuitton cases at Heathrow airport, they resorted to department store brands, buying new bags every year or so. A small price to pay, they say, given the cost of their trip and value of their belongings. That’s their argument, but I don’t buy it. I say buy the best bags you can find and afford and use their locks [whenever possible].
“Kayla,” a 15-year-old girl, told me how her wallet was stolen on a cross-country flight. Her mother and sister supported Kayla’s story. The thief was a 35ish woman sitting next to her. In the middle of the flight, the woman bent down and pretended to be digging in her purse. But Kayla felt something and looked, and could see that the woman was digging in her (Kayla’s) purse. Kayla said she was too scared to say anything. The woman got up and went to the bathroom. Kayla checked her purse and found that her wallet was gone. She told her mother. Then she and her mother told a flight attendant. The flight attendant found the wallet in the bathroom, missing only Kayla’s cash. Kayla was still too afraid to say anything to the thief. When the plane landed, the woman just left.
Thieves are thick on Lisbon’s two main tourist trams, 15 and 28. Within five minutes of arriving at a tram stop for #28, we’d pegged a pair of pickpockets. One carried a flat messenger bag and a newspaper, the other carried a jacket in the sweltering heat.
They stood well away from the gathering crowd waiting for #28. I was among the crowd; Bob watched from across the street, then down the block.
When the tram eventually lumbered along its tracks toward the stop, it was as if a director had called “action!” The waiting passengers tried to anticipate its exact stopping point; the two thieves moved in; Bob got into line; I kept to Bob’s right, camera aimed at his back pocket; one pickpocket threw his jacket over his left arm and went for Bob’s (prop) wallet; the other pickpocket got behind me, trying for my purse.
Slowly, we all mounted the tram stairs. I knew the thieves hadn’t succeeded, because they boarded also. If they’d gotten anything they wouldn’t have; but they still thought they had a chance.
Bob and I were both using new video cameras, and we both missed the shot. I had the better opportunity. Perfectly positioned, I saw everything. But I didn’t press the record button hard enough (though I thought I did). I missed the money shot.
The thieves moved to the back of the tram, where another pair, a man and a woman, joined them. It looked like they planned to work together. We were pretty sure they would try to block a departing passenger and pickpocket him on the stairs. Bob wanted to be that passenger, but I wanted to wait and see how their game played out.
A good samaritan warns of her city's thieves with a laugh.
Meanwhile, a woman looked at me with a big, friendly smile. “His wallet,” she said, patting her hip, “it’s dangerous…that way.” Laughing, she pointed her thumb behind her toward the back of the tram. To Bob she said “In her pocket is better.”
As the tram trundled on, I wondered why one of the pickpockets moved on my purse.
Signs onboard don't help boarding passengers.
It’s made of thick, rough leather, has a narrow opening high in my armpit, and a deep shape. It would be impossible to get into—unless the man had a razor blade. Even with a blade it would be a challenge, but the cutpurse wouldn’t necessarily realize it. Not particularly stylish, the purse is perfect for thiefhunting. I found it in Beijing.
Two Portuguese pickpockets in Lisbon
Too soon, the tram came to the end of its line and no one departed in front of the thieves. As the team of four dispersed, Bob accosted the original pair. We learned that they’re Portuguese, as was the third man, while his female partner was Bosnian. One of the thieves got busy on his mobile phone and wandered off—we guessed he was speaking with the third man.
Portuguese pickpocket's technique.
We kept up a conversation with the second, who was willing to talk. He demonstrated his technique, nipping the wallet between his first and second fingertips.
Bob and I waited for the next tram to go back. So did the foursome, smoking, separated, cautious, on the grassy area at the end of the line. We got on; of course they didn’t.
The old elevator tower: scene of many crimes.
We learned that pickpockets are also active on the stairs around the old elevator tower, despite the presence of security guards. We didn’t spend much time there. Worse, gang activity has increased dramatically over the past year, with immigrants arriving from the favellas of Brazil. Car-jackings are commonplace, even in the city center. Graffiti was everywhere.
Not all graffiti is this colorful. Many buildings are this dilapidated.
The whole city is crumbling. Peeling plaster and missing tiles made for some interesting textures on the walls. Unfortunately, Lisbon can’t pull off the elegant flaky-paint look the way Venice does. Lisbon just looks terribly dilapidated, its glory days over, deteriorating as we watch. Its structures are still grand, but they’re dressed like homeless derelicts, with the same empty-eyed glower, all dignity and self-respect burned off by neglect.
What I have always loved about Lisbon (and other Portuguese cities) are the sidewalks; and these, I’m happy to report, are still immaculately maintained. Black and white mosaics of smooth marble cubes, they are still neat, level, and polished to a slippery shine. The designs are different wherever you walk, some simple geometric shapes, some extravagant patterns, even signs of the zodiac. I’ll post about the making of these mosaics later.
Lisbon's lovely marble mosaic pavements.
Next day, same place. Waiting for tram 28. We’re melting in the heat and up shuffles this guy, with a thick, dirty sweatshirt tied around his waist, and a messenger bag. Not too obvious, is he? When the tram neared he dragged himself into position, and stared blankly up at the shouting driver. The driver was not shouting at him; he was saying something about a broken door, that the tram was going out of service. No one got on. Our man trundled away, like a tram off its tracks, with no discernible destination.
Loot ‘n scoot: Through my police friends, I learned of another devious M.O. resulting in theft from hotel rooms. The thief simply poses as a guest. Wearing pool attire, she enters a hotel room that has a housekeeping cart at the door, as if she’s just returning to her own room from the pool. She tells the maid that she forgot her key, starts looking for it, and dismisses the maid. I suppose her beach bag is big enough for all the goodies she grabs, and she scoots out in her swimsuit looking as innocent as can be.
Maid left hotel room open and empty.
In another version, a female thief gets a nearby housekeeper to open a hotel room door because she’s carrying a heavy load. She may or may not have spotters on the lookout for guests returning to that floor.
Hotel security
In both cases, the security of our belongings is in the hands of the maids. How well are they trained? How much discretion do they have? When should they break the rules in order to be nice? When should they bend the rules in anticipation of a nice gratuity? What about temporary workers during the hotel’s high season—do they receive as thorough training? How many of us have approached our room only to find that we forgot our key, or the key doesn’t work, and a nice service staff member volunteers to let us in?
Hotel policy is one thing; compliance is another. How do you react when you find that your key doesn’t work (for the third time), the front desk is far away (giant hotel), your feet hurt and your arms are full and you’re dead tired, and the maid with a master key says “I’m sorry. It’s for your own security.”?
The burglars described in the recent police bulletins were females of average height and weight, 50ish and blonde. Nicely generic. The maid may believe she’s seen the impostor; and perhaps she has. Should she risk offending the “guest”?
Perhaps the maid should be required to ask the name of the guest and match it to a list. Yeah, a list on a clipboard left on the cart, that the thief’s accomplice copped a glance at. Perhaps the maid should be required to snap a photo of the guest “for your security.”
As a very frequent hotel guest, I have many times returned to my room to find the door left open by housekeeping staff “just for a minute” while they run to do something else. This always infuriates me, as there’s usually a laptop or two left out, as in the photo here, not to mention other valuables. But this is simply housekeeping error, and with proper training, can be corrected. The impostors described above are skilled social engineers, harder to protect against.
Bruce Schneier is currently blogging from SHB09, the Second Interdisciplinary Workshop on Security and Human Behavior, at MIT. I doubt if discussions covered “tricking hotel maids,” but what a complicated and interesting subject. I would have liked to be a fly on the wall there. Instead, I can read articles by the presenters.
When my friend, Stephen Kane, described what he witnessed on a recent afternoon in Buenos Aires, I begged him to write it down for me. Following is his account.
Bad action in Buenos Aires
Prior to my first visit to Buenos Aires I was warned about the mustard/ketchup gag. As you’re walking, carrying a shoulder bag, someone sneaks behind you and squirts mustard or ketchup on your back. The accomplice later offers to help you clean it off. You remove the bag from your shoulder to do that and then it disappears along with the thief. So I felt particularly foolish when it almost immediately happened to me. I noticed I had been squirted but just kept holding my bag tightly and walking until I was safely out of the area. I have been back to Argentina many times and, thankfully, have never been threatened with robbery again.
So I suppose I was due for one particularly eventful day. I wasn’t the victim but the witness of two different scenes.
I was having Saturday lunch in a cafe on the corner of Corrientes and Florida. I was sitting at the window and had a very clear view of the crowd of people and traffic at the intersection. If I hadn’t been looking in the right direction I’d have never seen it happen. It was much too fast; so fast that nobody nearby realized it had happened until it was over. A tall, beautifully dressed girl was standing with her boyfriend waiting for the light to change so they could cross the street. Mixed into the traffic speeding down Corrientes was a large motorcycle carrying two men. The cycle suddenly stopped right in front of her and the man on back jumped off. He grabbed the girl from behind, putting one of his hands over her mouth to keep her from screaming. With the other hand he grabbed her necklaces and purse. By the time she was able to even make a sound and alert her boyfriend the thief was back on the cycle with his accomplice and speeding away in escape. But the event wasn’t finished. Someone standing nearby actually did see the robbery and managed to capture a picture of the thieves on a cellphone camera. I watched as they all summoned a policeman and showed him the photo of the cyclists. Of course, during the discussion that followed, the victims were much more animated than the policeman. After pleading with him for several minutes they eventually gave up and went on their way. So did the crowd. So did the policeman.
Petter, a thief in Lima, told us that one member of his team always carries a knife.
After lunch I walked a few blocks down Florida and turned into a small, uncrowded side street. I noticed a commotion in Continue reading
From town, several glaciers are visible in the Kenai Mountains.
A travel snafu brought us to Homer, Alaska, where the best joint in town is the Bidarka Inn. Population 5,454; minus children, that would just about make up one audience for us. We generally enjoy these unexpected opportunities to explore places off the beaten track. As long as the unplanned stops don’t impact a commitment.
After a nippy walk back from lunch in town (the Cosmic Kitchen, good), a hot shower was in order. The shower was a hideous, putty-colored, fiberglass unit complete with one of those ingenious curved curtain rods. Amazing what an improvement the curtain material made, though. The top quarter of the fabric, from my shoulder level up, was sheer mesh, allowing me to see out the bathroom door and out the window, to watch the activities at the skateboard park in the foreground, Kachemak Bay behind it, the snowcapped Kenai Mountains, and the Grewingk, Portlock, and Dixon Glaciers just beyond the bay. The distant view is spectacular in person. Much wider and closer than my photo appears.
Such small details, like a clever shower curtain, improve life on the road. My shower, even in the hideous, putty-colored, fiberglass unit, was pleasant. I probably used too much water.
I like the Japanese philosophies of beauty and simplicity, love the food, but can’t get used to the unquestioning, obedient nature of the people. Or that all answers are “yes,” even when it means “no.”
High-tech toilets: I like having a warm seat and a control panel. The electronic sound effects are annoying—fake waterfall or babbling brook sounds. The bidet/washing features are—um, too personal for comment.
Steam draws me, always.
I appreciate super-fast Asian internet, but my hotel wifi ate a bunch of my outgoing email without telling me. I prefer slow and reliable.
Cherry blossoms make up for the gray, cold, windy, rainy, dreary weather on the March/April cusp.
Yokohama has no trash cans. None. After I needed one, I kept looking the rest of the day as I crisscrossed the city. I never found one. Yep, there was a little trash on the ground, but only a little.
Natto beans with mustard, ready to top rice.
Breakfast: a bowl of rice with 30 different garnishes, 30 different ones every day. Wonderful. The one constant: natto beans, the love ’em or hate ’em fermented beans with a strong ammonia fragrance, which you whip up into a froth of snotty, stringy, viscous liquid, not unlike the stuff okra oozes. When you eat natto beans, the stuff loops from the chopsticks in long, fine, spiderwebby strings that stick to your chin and do feel like actual spider webs a minute or so later when dry.
Astonishing and confounding, how little English is spoken in Japan, including by the young people. What English exists is often amusing. The woman who was assigned to translate our presentation spoke to me beforehand and, pointing to a bald man, innocently called him a skinhead. I saw shops called “Junk Jewels” and another, “Junk & Antiques.” There’s a chain of mini-markets called “Sometimes Fresh.” Passed the “Pay Up Hotel.”
Pocari Sweat, available on every street corner.
If you’re thirsty on the street, you can stop at a vending machine and buy a bottle of “Pocari Sweat.” Vending machines also sell “Full Supporty” stockings, and tickets for full, hot meals, chosen by plastic display and then picked up from a cook nearby with never a word spoken.
Some very tall pine trees looked like cellphone towers.
A digital sign in front of a tollbooth showed an animated cartoon man waving a flag back and forth.
I’ve been to Japan quite a few times. These thoughts are not cumulative, but specifically from this visit.
Just back from safari in South Africa—21 of us on a family trip. My sister Shari wrote this report:
We’re driving along a dirt road at Mala Mala and our ranger says…”smell that?” No. was our answer. We kept driving and then saw vultures. He smelled death again. Then we see a hyena. Just one. We follow it off road in the jeep. It doesn’t even care. Eventually it lays down in the tall grass as though it’s saying ok, that’s enough. I’m not going to lead you to MY food. By then the smell is intolerable. Some of us thought it was the fact that we were parked in a grove of rhino shit. But our guide said that’s the least of it. It was definitely carcass.
Seven or eight hyenas fought over this meal of buffalo.
We keep driving in our land rover, just mowing down trees. We stop and shut down the engine. Our ranger says, “hear that.” No. was our answer. He follows the sound and stops again. “Hear that. They’re chewing and ripping.” Yes! we hear it. He keeps on going and eventually finds a small covered cove where three hyenas are chowing down on a buffalo carcass. It’s evening. The light is getting dim. We’re snapping photos, videotaping and even using flash. Then one jumps up and away. And we hear all kinds of hyena growling and howling. Another hyena wanted to join the feast, but there is a ritual, and the newcomer has to ask permission. We stayed quite awhile for a bit more action, more of the pack joining, and a little scuffle, etc. Amazing…and stinky.
 More than a dozen lions frolic after dark, and don't mind being in the spotlight.
We then drive to an open meadow where a pride of lions are lounging. By now is pitch black. We drive right up to them. We’re in an open jeep. We’re in a wide open meadow. We are among at least two mothers, one father, seven cubs and five teens. It is DARK. We shine spotlights right on them. They lounge, they wrestle. But they weren’t hungry. They never left to hunt, but it was great to see, to be right among them. We were just four yards from some of them.
 A magnificent lion at Mala Mala.
Last night we arrived in Singita, our new place. It was a 15 minute plane ride, and the topography is completely different. We are in a privately run portion of Kruger National Park. This portion is many thousands of acres that are only accessible to the lodge guests (which is only our group of 21 family members.) However, although privately managed, they still have to follow some of the National Park’s rules and we are not as free to just hightail it off road any time we please. They are only allowed off-road to track “the big five.” Kruger National Park is the size of Massachusetts.
 The sound of hippos was a constant backdrop. More than one is a raft.
We stopped at the side of the dirt road and took a short walk to the end of some craggy rocks on the edge of a green river filled with hippos. At least 17. We could have watched them do their hippo thing…which is nothing…for hours. I caught one with it’s mouth wide open. I hope it’s not blurry. They’re surprisingly, loudly, vocal (and we hear them all night from our rooms above the river). Later that night, on our way back to the lodge, we saw two hippos out of the water. They look like giant pigs. They’re shy. They ran away fairly quickly. We felt lucky to see them, because they’re in water most of the time.
 Glass box aerie has an outdoor shower and netted bed on back deck.
This lodge is amazing. You should look it up! We’re in Singita at Lebombo lodge. The entire place is built on stilts above ground, and can be completely dismantled and taken away in 30 days, leaving only a few patches of bare ground. Not to piss you off, but it’s one of the top in world. We count ourselves lucky—very lucky—to be here.
Coogee Beach, Australia— I spend a lot of time on our hotel balcony because the view is spectacular. The weather is glorious and the waves are loud. It’s a fine place to write, with a computer on my lap.
Coogee Beach. Photo by Paola Unger.
I can see a series of little coves just beyond our beach, and each is separated by a rocky promontory. The sea crashes into these dividers in slow motion, and white clouds of spray just hang there, punctuating each rocky spit of land like a period at the end of a sentence.
Hmmm, take that further: the coast is a paragraph, the country a book, a tome, a history since life began. Its sentences are long and the ragged right runs into the sea. Each sentence is an enigma, ending with a question mark shrouded in mist. The one closest to me ends with an ellipsis of rocks…
