Pickpocket

written October 31



The Paris metro reflects the levels of Paris society. Some stations are artist designed, beautiful with fresco or archeological installations or mosaic. Some are sleek, stylish, ready to walk the runway, catch the eye of the world. Some, though - most, probably - are worn and grafitti-ridden, the black walks spotted with old chewing gum, the concrete walls sooty, the smells of mouldy stone and old urine predominant. It was in a station like this I watched the pickpocket. I was slung like a burro with bags, making my way from the Gare du Nord baggage lockers to my hosts’ home in the suburbs. I was digging through, looking for something, a map, my tickets, and I saw his curiosity, his slight smile, looking at my open pack. His eyes met mine briefly and he moved away. His gaze was always low, at purse and pocket level. He seemed well practiced, his eyes always moving, assessing, peering around, studying for signs of vulnerability. He zeroed in on some Japanese men in grey business suits. He moved close as the train approached, the wind from the tunnel ruffling his hair. His nudge would be barely stronger than that tunnel wind, the wallet would disappear imperceptibly. The doors opened, he swooped. I swooped faster, between him and his prey, and he veered off. No acknowledgment. The denial of a pro who’d been discovered. Nonchalant.



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