Here's a good Worldchump story, although it happened long before this blog began. Today marks the anniversary of the last time I ever carried a wallet. 18 years ago, to the day. I still remember it, because it will forever be known as the wallet that got away. The wallet to end all wallets. And three times were a (bad luck) charm, as it so happened.
Flash back before that. Spring 1990, Barcelona. A two week trip with my buddies, a bike tour down the Costa Brava. The day before our first leg, we hit the town. We have dinner, hit the first bar, or at least that's the plan. Turns out the locals have a plan of their own, which includes our money. The trouble is, the kid (at 15 or 16, he is still pimple-faced enough to call him a kid) pulls out my wallet with a little too much zest, so the element of surprise is notably absent. I also have wheels, so the kid lasts for one block before noticing his stamina isn't all that and flings the wallet over his shoulder before rounding a corner. One-nil, good guys. Chalk it up to good conditioning, but also an absolute amateur pickpocket.
It's a close call that goes my way, and something that should have me re-think my cash carrying methods. Instead, I continue to carry a wallet with all the trimmings: driver's license, bank card, library card, you name it. Can't, can't lose these things, which goes double in a paper chase hell like Germany, where the bureaucracy can be stifling at its best, and downright depressive at its worst. In those days, I still have that Generation X cockiness that nothing could happen to me. I am still pretty fast with good endurance. I figure as long as I stay close, I can catch anybody.
Flash forward five years. Vacation time, this time in Hamburg. In town for the usual mayhem and debauchery only students on minimal budgets can have. St. Pauli, Red Light District - don't even ask how I got there, but I'm fairly sure it had nothing to do with girls. Any way you look at it, it's the wrong place at the wrong time. I bump into a local but feel his hand go somewhere else, inside my coat pocket. I thought, whoa, guy's gay and maybe a little too stoned. I've got him, though. I turn around before he can actually secure the wallet and have a hand on his shoulder before he can pick up his feet. Turns out I have his collars in my fists, but the wallet is no longer in his hands. It lands at the curbside, near the front wheel of a bike parked near a wall. The guy gets away, only because I care about my wallet and would like to make it back home. These are also the days before the Euro existed, so the German marks I had in there might have been all I had. Also, as my buddies remind me, a fight is never something you want to start in St. Pauli, no matter what.
Two-zip, good guys, even though it's disputable who the good guy really was. I would like to say that I was in Hamburg for all the right reasons, on a mission from God, yada, yada, yada. The truth is, I was as guilty as anybody hanging around the Red Light District that night. My head got very big after catching that little weasel up north.
I get what I deserve.
The final time my wallet was picked was in Tijuana, somewhere near the border. If you are alert, you will always know where your wallet is, and when people are fumbling around your pockets. No different here. It doesn't even take tight pants to realize this. This was not even a clean swipe. The guy snatched it out of my front pocket and decided to rely on both his speed and his street smarts to escape. I'm almost 30 by now, but I still think I can get him. I must have chased him four blocks until I lose him near some super mercado. The guy decides to duck into the tourist traps and hope for the best. He loses me quickly. Luckily my passport isn't in there. I am pissed, pissed, pissed. I must have shouted something in the air, maybe some Spanish love words. Some directed at Mexico, some at myself for stubbornly clinging to the idea of a wallet and its limited benefits.
The guy gets away, and with him my driver's license, student ID, library card, bank card, everything. The 40 plus bucks I have in there are the least of my worries. It will be retrieving the cards that prove that I even exist. I roar like a madman once I know I've lost the guy and make a decision from then on never to carry a wallet again. Good thing. I'm too old for chasing people now. I can barely keep up with my kids. The wallet is D-E-A-D.
18 years later, I carry one form of ID and some cash, and that's it. It's only small satisfaction that people don't need to rely on wallets the way they used to, especially in today's e-business world that offers e-wallets, among many other novelties. Anyway, gracias, Mexico for finally making me see the light. No hard feelings (drop dead).
Flash back before that. Spring 1990, Barcelona. A two week trip with my buddies, a bike tour down the Costa Brava. The day before our first leg, we hit the town. We have dinner, hit the first bar, or at least that's the plan. Turns out the locals have a plan of their own, which includes our money. The trouble is, the kid (at 15 or 16, he is still pimple-faced enough to call him a kid) pulls out my wallet with a little too much zest, so the element of surprise is notably absent. I also have wheels, so the kid lasts for one block before noticing his stamina isn't all that and flings the wallet over his shoulder before rounding a corner. One-nil, good guys. Chalk it up to good conditioning, but also an absolute amateur pickpocket.
It's a close call that goes my way, and something that should have me re-think my cash carrying methods. Instead, I continue to carry a wallet with all the trimmings: driver's license, bank card, library card, you name it. Can't, can't lose these things, which goes double in a paper chase hell like Germany, where the bureaucracy can be stifling at its best, and downright depressive at its worst. In those days, I still have that Generation X cockiness that nothing could happen to me. I am still pretty fast with good endurance. I figure as long as I stay close, I can catch anybody.
Flash forward five years. Vacation time, this time in Hamburg. In town for the usual mayhem and debauchery only students on minimal budgets can have. St. Pauli, Red Light District - don't even ask how I got there, but I'm fairly sure it had nothing to do with girls. Any way you look at it, it's the wrong place at the wrong time. I bump into a local but feel his hand go somewhere else, inside my coat pocket. I thought, whoa, guy's gay and maybe a little too stoned. I've got him, though. I turn around before he can actually secure the wallet and have a hand on his shoulder before he can pick up his feet. Turns out I have his collars in my fists, but the wallet is no longer in his hands. It lands at the curbside, near the front wheel of a bike parked near a wall. The guy gets away, only because I care about my wallet and would like to make it back home. These are also the days before the Euro existed, so the German marks I had in there might have been all I had. Also, as my buddies remind me, a fight is never something you want to start in St. Pauli, no matter what.
Two-zip, good guys, even though it's disputable who the good guy really was. I would like to say that I was in Hamburg for all the right reasons, on a mission from God, yada, yada, yada. The truth is, I was as guilty as anybody hanging around the Red Light District that night. My head got very big after catching that little weasel up north.
I get what I deserve.
The final time my wallet was picked was in Tijuana, somewhere near the border. If you are alert, you will always know where your wallet is, and when people are fumbling around your pockets. No different here. It doesn't even take tight pants to realize this. This was not even a clean swipe. The guy snatched it out of my front pocket and decided to rely on both his speed and his street smarts to escape. I'm almost 30 by now, but I still think I can get him. I must have chased him four blocks until I lose him near some super mercado. The guy decides to duck into the tourist traps and hope for the best. He loses me quickly. Luckily my passport isn't in there. I am pissed, pissed, pissed. I must have shouted something in the air, maybe some Spanish love words. Some directed at Mexico, some at myself for stubbornly clinging to the idea of a wallet and its limited benefits.
The guy gets away, and with him my driver's license, student ID, library card, bank card, everything. The 40 plus bucks I have in there are the least of my worries. It will be retrieving the cards that prove that I even exist. I roar like a madman once I know I've lost the guy and make a decision from then on never to carry a wallet again. Good thing. I'm too old for chasing people now. I can barely keep up with my kids. The wallet is D-E-A-D.
18 years later, I carry one form of ID and some cash, and that's it. It's only small satisfaction that people don't need to rely on wallets the way they used to, especially in today's e-business world that offers e-wallets, among many other novelties. Anyway, gracias, Mexico for finally making me see the light. No hard feelings (drop dead).
