My new article, Safety in the City, is posted over at BonjourParis.com. Alas, it's not about safe sex (or even unsafe sex). It's a Premium article (again) about the time I got the pockets picked out of me by some of Paris' light-fingered youth.
One thing smart travelers need to think about is safety, especially we solo travelers. Paris is actually a very safe city in most respects, but there is one way in which it stands out, criminally speaking: the Paris Pickpocket. Dickens’ Artful Dodger has nothing on these sticky-fingered guys. And I speak from experience.
I had read about the pickpocket problem in Paris before my first visit in 1998. I was there on my own, and as I was in unfamiliar territory, I did all the usual common-sense things to protect myself, like keeping my purse in plain sight at all times and not walking down any dark alleys. I had a delightful and very safe trip.
On my next visit in 2001, I was not quite so fortunate. Having been to Paris before, I committed the cardinal sin of experienced travelers: the arrogance that comes from having “been there, done that”. I thought I was too smart for the pickpockets. I thought I was too savvy to EVER be the victim of one of those slick little street-rats.
The trip was for a special occasion—my 40th birthday—and I brought my mother along with me. I’d always promised myself I would turn 40 in Paris, and I was keeping that promise.
The morning after our arrival, we set off for the Musée d’Orsay. While standing in line outside, my mother pointed out a series of signs—in flashing red neon and in four languages—which said “Beware of Pickpockets”. I told my mother about the pickpocket situation in Paris and how you just had to keep your wits about you and exercise good judgment, and you’d be fine. Those words were shortly to come back to haunt me.
After a delightful morning of Impressionist art, we crossed over the Seine. We enjoyed a picnic lunch of sandwiches eaten beside a fountain in the Tuileries; then headed up the Champs Elysées for a stroll. As we walked, I suddenly started to feel lightheaded and nauseous. Maybe it was just jet lag or maybe it was that sandwich I ate, but suddenly, all I wanted was to go back to the hotel.
So down into the Métro we went. We bought our tickets and I put my wallet into my backpack-style purse, and shrugged the whole thing onto my back. (Can you spot my safety faux pas here?)
Now, a word about this backpack. Weeks earlier, I’d bought it at a flea market because it was the perfect cheap travel accessory--except for the flimsy Velcro-only closure. Although I knew it would be “easy pickins” for some criminal, I rationalized away my concerns by reminding myself of what a worldly traveler I was; I “knew better”, so I bought the back-pack.
In retrospect, the only thing I really “knew” was how to justify a stupid choice.
The train arrived, packed with all of Friday-afternoon Paris, but we squeezed our way onto one of the cars. As we were doing that, two teenaged boys gently shoved us a bit farther into the car so they could get on board behind us. With the car packed like sardines, the doors closed, and off we went.
It happened so quickly, but I still see it in slow motion. You know something’s wrong, you know it’s happening, but it’s so fast there’s nothing you can do. One moment I heard that Velcro opening, and then at the next stop, the boys were gone—and so was my wallet.
When something like that happens, you have two choices: panic or productivity. I opted for the latter. I knew I needed to set aside my disbelief and anger, and do damage control. The stolen passport was the biggest problem, followed by the need to cancel my credit cards. My cash and driver’s license, I wrote off as a lost cause, and there was little point in wasting time at the police station. We left the Métro at Concorde and asked the nearest policeman for directions to the American Embassy.
Imagine my relief when he pointed to the building RIGHT next to us! Within an hour, I had my new passport, and the Embassy staff even helped me cancel my credit cards—luckily, before the thieves had time to use them. I even got to the American Express office a short time later, where there was a new card and cash advance all ready for me.
Though we took taxis for the rest of the trip (enough Métro for us!), we even managed to make it to a special birthday dinner that evening--a delightful cruise on the Seine with some French friends.
So what could have been a complete disaster turned out to be a minor inconvenience, and a good (albeit costly) lesson to learn: when it comes to safety, never brush off your own best instincts, and NEVER think you can outsmart a seasoned criminal. Do whatever you can to make it hard for them to target you; I did everything but personally hand the guy my wallet. Above all, don’t let your guard down and ignore who and what is around you when you’re in a crowded city.
The next day, I turned 40 in Paris. A little older, and a whole lot wiser.
