My Innocent Indiscretion. Eva Cassel
herring finally did me in. I love salty food. When I passed the third stall of its kind I broke down and reached for my wallet. It was nothing if not low glycemic-not a carbohydrate in sight.
I’d decided not to bother with a cumbersome purse since I was thinking of renting a bicycle later. I’d taken out most of the contents of my wallet and kept only cash and my credit card, then put the thin wallet in my back pocket.
As the herring man handed me my breakfast on a paper plate, I discovered that my wallet was gone.
I simultaneously spun around and frantically patted myself down, just in case the wallet had migrated like a mouse under a blanket. No. It was truly gone. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open, I looked around in all directions. I’m not sure what I was looking for, exactly—someone who looked guilty, I think, someone running, someone eyeing me intently while they pretended to smell the peaches. Something.
My instinct was to sit down on the pavement and start wailing until someone made it all better. Instead, I handed the herring back to the bewildered man and started shuffling back to the hotel in small, quick steps to call the credit card company.
With every step my panic mounted. I’d just convinced VISA to increase my limit to a very dangerous thirty thousand, just in case (of Prada, or Gucci, or a loss of my wits at H&M).
As I dodged other bodies, I saw the thief sitting at his computer in an apartment somewhere near by, going hog-wild playing online poker. The thought made me wince. I squinted my eyes shut as though cowering from a blow and nearly collided with someone.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumbled, only half looking up, all my attention focused on getting back to the hotel as quickly as possible.
I’d taken a couple of steps when my brain finally retrieved the necessary information. I stopped, turned around and saw Chad, holding up my wallet with an unrepentant grin.
“That’s how easy it is, and I’m not exactly a pro,” he said as I walked up to him, momentarily too stunned for words. “Don’t ever let your wallet out of your sight,” he said as I tried to make a grab for it, “in a city like Amsterdam some people make their living this way.” He handed my wallet back to me.
I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug him for giving it back to me and teaching me this invaluable lesson, or slap him for nearly giving me a heart attack.
I finally exhaled, my hand over my heart. “Jesus Christ, that scared me!” I admitted.
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