Fifty-two minutes in Barcelona and my wallet was already gone. Not forgotten, not misplaced, but stolen. And all I could think about while I was running back to the hotel was 52 minutes. It may have even been less than that. It was 52 minutes when I noticed.
Maybe I had been lulled into a false sense of security. Everything had gone so smoothly. I had made it from my flat in Camden to Heathrow airport without a problem. My flight even arrived a little early in Barcelona. The shuttle had been exactly on time to pick me up and had taken only 18 minutes to get to my hotel.
Everything had gone so well that I was early and my room was not yet ready. I was told by the friendly desk clerk Manuela to return in 30 minutes. So I left my luggage and hurried out to explore.
Less than half an hour later I was at a cash register purchasing some gifts. I reached into my coat pocket for my wallet and it was gone.
I frantically searched the store twice. Retraced my steps twice. By the time I got back to the hotel the initial shock had worn off, and as I was struggling to explain what had happened to Manuela, I burst into tears. Gone. Stolen. Pickpocketed.
This was supposed to be a trip in which I asserted my independence. I had chosen to come to Barcelona on my own. Some friends and flatmates had invited me on trips to Lisbon and Copenhagen but I had chosen to come here to Barcelona and to come alone. I had told myself that one of the reasons for studying abroad in London was to become more self-reliant. I considered this trip as a further step in that process.
But instead, I found myself in a foreign country, a foolish tourist and completely penniless. I had no idea what to do. Naively, I had kept all my money in my wallet. I felt so stupid, remembering how I had proudly exchanged money only minutes before at the airport.
I dreaded calling home but it was only 4 a.m. in California. So that call had to wait. This wasn't the best news to wake my parents with.
In the meantime I tried to take care of other problems. I was finally able to get through to my bank in the States to cancel my credit cards. Half an hour later, I hung up with the well intentioned but entirely unhelpful customer service representative who told me to call back in a few hours. Then Manuela gave me directions to the police station, noting that this type of thing happened to tourists all the time. Again, the well-meaning comment was not comforting.
I walked down Las Rambles, the famous picturesque street, looking distractedly into store and restaurant windows and then back at the map sketched out for me by Manuela. I had gotten my emotions under control but still felt shaky. I turned down a road that got seedier and seedier and finally asked someone for directions. Manuela had given me the wrong street name. As I made my way to the right place, I wondered how many other frantic tourists had been similarly misdirected.
The police officer asked my name. I told him, he wrote it down. I was trying to retain my composure. He kindly commented that my Spanish was excellent, particularly for someone from the States and asked me about my name and its origin. I filled out the form he gave me and got the impression that I was never going to see my wallet or its contents again — the picture of my mom as a teenager, a dozen or so ticket stubs and receipts that I couldn't bear to throw out and my PUID. They were all gone forever.
When I got back to the hotel, I finally called home. As I tried to explain to my mother what had happened, I burst into tears once again (this would be repeated every time I retold the story that night). I knew telling my family would be difficult; they had not wanted me to travel alone. My mother became nervous when she realized that I had absolutely no money. Of course, her first question was, "But what will you do for dinner?"
But dinner was the least of my worries. I was in Barcelona for five more days with no money. Eventually, they successfully wired me some money and I was able to start my vacation. But for the next few days I couldn't stop thinking about it. I felt so stupid. This feeling was reinforced a few days later.
It was evening and I had just picked up some pictures from the pharmacy. They were pictures I had taken the week before, when my boyfriend visited me in London. I was very excited and sat down to look at them in an outdoor cafe in Plaza Catalunya.
I was smiling at the pictures, thinking I would write my boyfriend a postcard when an elderly man approached me. He was tugging at my arm and speaking in what sounded like Spanish but wasn't. I didn't understand. He then pointed at my feet, where my backpack had been. It was gone.
I felt a sinking feeling — now familiar — in my stomach. I asked "Donde esta!?" He responded and gestured but I still didn't understand. He was speaking Catalan, which sounds like a mixture of Spanish and French. I was beginning to panic. I thought, "Oh my god. Not again!"
I almost pleaded with him, "No entiendo. Por favor, ayudeme." He pointed to a crowd not too far away but I couldn't tell what or whom he was pointing at. Frustrated, the man grabbed my arm and ran with me to where a younger man was about to enter the Metro station. My eyes zoomed to his left hand where he held a bag — my blue backpack, with its distinctive Eeyore keychain dangling nonchalantly.
I was angry. I ripped it away from him and ran. My heart was pounding. The older man ran after me. He began scolding me. Though I didn't quite understand his words, I understood the meaning.
He took my bag and was showing me how I should keep it when sitting outside — wrapped around my legs. He continued lecturing me but I was no longer listening. I felt sick. "Why me? Why did this happen to me? Twice!" I kept thinking if only this man knew this had happened to me just a few days ago, he would be really angry. I walked away in a daze thinking, "Do I have 'rob me' stamped on my forehead?"
Later I retold the story to a friend and he was impressed that I had the courage to retrieve my bag from the thief. I hadn't thought of it that way. Instead of feeling completely helpless and foolish, I felt proud.
I realize, just now, as I've left my bag and coat on a chair in Frist to check my e-mail, that in general I am trusting. I grew up in a rural town of 4,000 where, to this day, my family doesn't lock the front door. I feel safe there and in the same way here. However, that being said, I know I will not make the same mistake again.
I am glad to say the experience did not make me paranoid or bitter. I still trust people. But, if you try to take my stuff, watch out!
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