We’re eight days into a two-week trip and have fallen into the groove of travel and Italy. We greet each other with Buongiorno and everything is prego. Until it’s not.
We are saying our final goodbye to Cinque Terre, my favorite place in this world. We are waiting for the regional train to stop in Manarola to take us away to Milan.
The train doors open and everyone is rushing to get on. My dad grabs my mother’s suitcase in one hand and his suitcase in the other. We’re body to body. All of sudden time slows down. A stranger reaches into my dad’s pocket and grabs his credit cards and euros. She doesn’t know she has targeted the wrong “old man.” Older American folks seem to be the common victim of pickpockets in Italy.
In a flash, my dad turns around, grabs the purse she is wearing around her neck and yells, “give me my money back. give me my money back.” She looks very startled and tries to pass my dad’s wallet off to her accomplice. But she isn’t quick enough. My dad slaps the wallet out of her hand onto the train platform. For a second, we all just stare.
The woman and her accomplice run out of the train station. My dad picks up his wallet and boards the train. The passengers stare in disbelief. Then, we were off to Milan.