Pickpockets of Rome
The pickpockets of Rome are legend. As a tourist heading to Italy, you prepare for their sticky fingers on your wallet just as you prepare for a debilitating bout of diarrhea or an unexpected change in weather. Just as you pack a sweater and the Imodium tablets, you read up on the ways to protect yourself from pickpockets; you purchase sturdy bags with strong straps and ultra-thin money belts that tuck into your pants; you learn how to react when accosted.
We had long talks about the pickpockets of Rome at our house in the weeks before our trip. Our son was first curious about their existence, then frightened, the obsessed that we would become victims. I downplayed that likelihood, telling him, “nah, it won’t happen to us, but we need to be prepared – just in case.” But in my twisted, foolish mind, I found myself thinking that I would be disappointed if we were not accosted. The pickpockets of Rome are perhaps the best in the world. Generally, they are not violent. Part illusion, part artistry, they strip you of your valuables and leave you wondering just how they did it. By my way of thinking, to go to Rome and not have an encounter with a pickpocket would be like trudging through the Vatican museum only to find the Sistine chapel closed for renovation.
I was not disappointed. On our third day in Rome we had our encounter. We were on a busy subway platform near the Coliseum. The doors on the subway car in front of us opened. The car was crowded. Three young gypsy girls, maybe twelve years old, stood blocking our entrance. I pushed by them, pulling Conor on board with me. Behind me, I heard Cynde scream at the top of her lungs, “Get your hands off me.” I turned to watch her shove one of the girls almost off her feet. This is what the books tell you to do when approached by a group of gypsy pickpockets: Yell loudly and shove – make a strong unequivocal stance. Otherwise, you’ll be lucky to still have your underwear when they are done with you. The middle gypsy girl was wearing a sweater draped over her arm. One of the other two pushed Cynde toward the middle girl who tried to grab her bag and hide it under her sweater before jumping off the train just as the doors close. That was the plan, but Cynde foiled it.
There was silence on the train after that. I stood in the aisle very proud of my wife. The Romans on the train never even looked up from their newspapers. Although, a few could not contain their smiles. They were the kind of smiles that said, “Well done, Signora. Well done.” The gypsy girls continued to stand facing the doors, shoulder-to-shoulder, staring out into the dark subway tunnel. Occasionally, I could see the reflection of their somber faces on the glass. When the train pulled into the next station, they got off together, walked to the car behind ours and went right back to work.
10:32:36 PM 
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