What Were the Chances?

Earlier this week, I was reminded of my compulsion with which I am increasingly obsessed—the continued ownership of my wallet. As dinner ended at the Three Sisters Pub, we all stood to put on our coats and leave. In a New York minute we all realized that my cousin, Joe couldn’t locate his wallet. After the requisite amount of time spent squeezing pockets and digging through the backpack, we spotted it on the floor beneath his chair. All was well; but once again I was reminded of the reality that some people make their living by taking things from unsuspecting tourists.

Some statistician somewhere might love to know how many times per day I touch my front left pocket—the travel-home of my ultra thin wallet. While researching the topic for this entry I learned that highly skilled pickpockets look for this very behavior to ascertain the target of their efforts. Great…my OCD unintentionally helps the very people who are trying to steal from me! I tried to find an estimate of the number of pickpockets working in and around Amsterdam, but no such information was found. Instead I found loads of entries revealing the sad details of unhappy vacations in Holland.

Two weeks ago after three days in Brugge, Belgium, Gwaz and I found our way through the labyrinth called the train station in Brussels on our way back to Amsterdam. Somewhere between the food court and our platform, Gwaz spotted someone’s ID card on the ground; and after she picked it up, I gave it to the teller in the closest ticket kiosk.  We looked for our platform.

The “fast” train between Brussels and Amsterdam is called the Thalys (tal-eez), but by no means is it the only one. There are more than two dozen platforms, and after a short detour to play good Samaritan, we found our platform and a bench where we started the all-too-familiar ritual of unloading—backpacks, man purse, coats, hats, scarves… At about that time, Gwaz noticed the near panic of four Asian people. She interrupted by asking, “Excuse me, are you looking for an ID card?” They were, but we soon found out that that was not even the right question.

Instead of struggling to understand each other, I took the man to the kiosk where his ID was displayed in the window. After a quick check, the teller handed over his card; the man took it and asked, “But did anyone find my wallet?” That’s when I got the full picture. When pickpockets get what they steal, they cannot afford is to be found in possession of someone else’s identification card…thus the card Gwaz found. That’s why I am incessant about checking my front pocket. It never fails that each and every time I have for reasons closely related to carelessness placed my wallet somewhere besides where it belongs (and it does happen), I am immediately overcome by a burst of adrenalin as I begin patting wildly the rest of my pockets to find my misplaced wallet.

In a huge train station like the one in Brussels, in only one of the many, many avenues within, Gwaz found an ID card. Then, as if for no better reason than to reteach me of the importance of prudence, Gwaz spotted the owner searching frantically for what he knew was gone. What were the chances?