Spain: A Gypsy, My Cousin, A Mugger, And Me

Giving the mugger my purse simply wasn’t an option: I was the only one with a wallet.

My travel companion lost her money and credit cards early in our trip to a gypsy woman with a newspaper, a kissy face and some quick hands. In fact she lost everything in her bag, seeing as it was upside down and empty when she checked it next. I escaped with my possessions thanks only to compulsive behavior. Whenever someone bumps into me I open my bag, find my wallet, and close my bag again – this the result of years of up-close subway riding. That’s what I did the first time the woman touched me; Suzanne saw me do it but thought I was going to give the woman money. It didn’t even occur to me to warn her – I was just doing what I always do.

Being moneyless in a foreign country is debilitating, but the wallet was just the first sign that things weren’t going smoothly in Barcelona. I never did get the late nights and siesta schedule working properly for me. We’d be up until dawn, then sleep in. By the time we were fed and showered and ready for the day, the whole country was preparing for a nap. Someone threw water balloons at us one evening as we headed out. It seemed there was nothing on the radio except Cher's comeback hit "Believe." And we were constantly lost, notwithstanding the map of Barcelona clearly marked with an 'X' at the drippy church.

Also, unbeknownst to us, one flies from Barcelona to Madrid; the train is simply not the done thing. On the contrary, it is a long, slow, cigarette-saturated mistake. Madrid itself was an oasis, and my memory of it hazy. I remember a Christmas fair, churros y chocolat at a coffee shop, and dinner with my cousin, in Madrid for a semester abroad. We were rested and refreshed from our stay in the MTV-meets-brothel hotel. We were ready for our next adventure.

On the way back there was a train strike – something to do with political separatism, I think, but then again I don’t speak Spanish. They put us on a bus for the remainder of the route and, while I worried that I’d take an accidental trip to Toledo, we rode through puddles so deep they seeped into the luggage compartment and soaked our clothes. This is why it doesn’t pay to worry; I so rarely get it right.

We weren’t even meant to be in Barcelona the night of the mugging, but the bus arrived too late for us to get the train to Sitges, so we returned to the same hotel in Barcelona. And then we set out to find a bar, tottering down an alley so quiet and poorly lit the people in the movie audience have to be screaming “Don’t go down there, fool!” If I’d had any sense, I would have left my passport, a bit of cash and an ATM card in the hotel room. Sadly, I had no sense.

Honestly, the only scary part was hearing stones crunch and turning to see someone lunge at me. I didn’t know if he had a knife. When I discovered he only intended to snatch my purse, I set about beating him. I called him all walks of names, too. I remember being glad I called him a bastard, as I was confident it translated. Eventually he had enough of being hit, and ran off. (Don’t you wonder how HE tells this story?)

We were probably 50 yards from our destination at the time, and my friend suggested we go in and have a drink. But I had to go back to the hotel immediately, where I could hyperventilate and cry in peace. There, reliving our vacation on our final night, my friend and I came to the conclusion: Spain can eat me.

I’m going to Amsterdam where I can smoke things my mother won’t approve of, and no one will mug me. Then I’m going home to Manhattan, where I don’t have to worry about crime.