I was told to watch out for pickpockets in Athens, in particular the mustard trick, how on the metro they spill mustard on you, apologize, and wipe it off with a dirty napkin while their co-conspirators take advantage of your confusion and remove items from your pockets.
Or the friendly conversation trick, in which he or she draws you into a lively chat, only to distract you so that other pickpockets can remove your valuables. Hearing this, I kept my eyes averted from strangers, and felt alarmed when anyone spoke to me in a crowd.
Or the coat over the arm trick, so that the pickpocket can slide his other hand through the tunnel of his draped coat and nibble on your valuables with his finger tips.
I was told to carry my wallet in my front pocket, and my bags closed tight and under my control, to even carry my knapsack on my chest, which I did on occasion, although it made me feel dorky.
On my last morning in Athens, I was boarding the metro on my way to the airport when three large men stepped into the train just ahead of me. One stumbled and dropped his pack of cigarettes on the floor, then quickly picked it up. The pack was white, with black writing, and black designs on it. I stumbled against him, since I was trying to get my bags on board before the door closed. At the same time, the other two pressed around me, as if they’d been knocked off balance by the movement of the train.
A thought strolled across my mind, like the crawl at the bottom of a news broadcast: “I am being pick-pocketed!”
Since I had my suitcase, a heavy briefcase attached to it, and a backpack hanging from my shoulders (and on my back) the only move I could make was with my left shoulder. I lowered it hard into the chest of the man to my left, and knocked him back enough to escape from the box they’d put me in, retreating to the other side of the car, my back to the opposite door.
Since I didn’t know if they were pickpockets or not, I signaled apologies to the guy I’d hit with my shoulder. He did not respond. The other two stood motionless, looking away. When the train slowed for the next stop, the man I had knocked back approached me abruptly, stood close, and when the doors opened, stepped hard on my foot. No damage done.
I patted my pockets. My wallet and passport were where I put them. My watch was still on my wrist, and an hour later when the airport security agents went through my backpack, all the little gift items were there.
There is something in this experience for speakers and listeners alike—something about the art of picking pockets that is relevant to good speaking, and careful listening.
Stay tuned!