The French Maiden and the Pickpocket
I am working in the dining room midmorning on my email when the doorbell rings, quite loud as it is a hand crank actual bell. I’ve never even heard it nor knew we had one so it startles me to be home alone and have the bell clang. At the door is a French maiden probably in her late 30’s, attractive, with long dark hair wearing jeans and a long sleeve flannel shirt. As I open the door she launches into a speech in French of which I understand nothing. The best I could tell she was asking me for money for something, possible a utility bill? She was friendly and innocent enough looking however I decided that without a vehicle – she walked up – and without any official looking clothes, I wasn’t going to give her any money.
As part of our back and forth trying to understand each other she asked for a stilo that I know well from Rosseta Stone is a pen. I invite her in and provide pen and paper eager now to know what she wants as she is focused on this house and very definitely has something in mind. I thought she was planning on inking a picture but instead she scratches out a few French words on the paper and makes an odd symbol and writes 400 and 600. The symbol I’ve come to learn means Euro and it makes sense to me that she is asking for 400 to 600 Euro that she communicates is for the month. I incorrectly assume she is asking me to pay the water bill. At this point, I almost fainted if that is the cost of water here so I, in my best French accented English, explain this to her. It is too much, it is robbery, how can it be this high I gesture; she looks puzzled. Finally, she says Voilla, a term accompanied by a throwing up the hands gesture the French use with every discovery, at least to non-French speaking Americans. She pulls out her phone and begins to madly dial away talking to several people looking for a translator. Eventually she finds an elderly sounding English accented lady who explains that Nichole wants to rent a room from me and understands we have a room to let. I consider it. I look at her and consider it some more. After a seemingly long time while I’m considering the possibilities and problems, I tell her “Non” (French for No) I don’t have a room (in English with my French movie accent). After we “Non” back and forth a few times she smiles, says Merci (another mysterious term the French use all the time) and walks off. Later I tell Chris the story and he indicates he would gladly give up his room to her until I tell him about her age and then he’s not so sure.
Nancy arrived in Geneva on the 5th of September and after picking her up at the airport, she wants to go looking around the city. Happy to oblige, I whip out my new European GX10,000 Garmin and punch in a previous address where I had taken Chris to the movie theater earlier that day and off we go. There are of course many roads and more long lasting stoplights in Geneva than anywhere else in the world and I’m certain that somewhere between the airport and movie she will spot interesting things. I’m driving confidently because I have HOME plugged into my Garmin and will never get lost again or so the instructions said. After getting to the movie theater, she still had not seen enough so I drive around the main roads; it is a beautiful warm Sunday and the roads are not heavily traveled as we venture through the city and come across the lake. Lake Geneva is 45 miles long and quite a few miles wide going northeast to southwest with it’s Southwest formation at a basin surrounded by Geneva. The lake is mountain stream clear filled with sailboats on this perfect 10-knot breeze sailing day. The local city folk spend time walking along the boardwalk around the lake and sunning. Actually around this part of the lake is a wide concrete pier at the water with an extended park behind the pier so it’s perfect for strolling, sitting, eating, sunning.
After a long walk gawking at the locals who are gawking at us and feeling we are truly having a European moment, we stop for a Gelato and resume our walk. Out of a group of young men on our right, a thin young man jumps next to me humming a French ditty and is trying to dance with me or trip me, I can’t tell. He is hopping on his right foot and has his left leg over my legs while hanging onto me, but he is smiling and seemingly enjoying himself. I’m uncomfortable to have this guy hanging on me and I’m about to trip when Nancy, walking behind us, shoves his hand into my butt. Apparently, he had my wallet halfway out of my pocket when she instinctively shoved it back. He skipped off to his friends laughing and still singing his ditty. It took me a few minutes to realize what had just happened and even longer to appreciate how lucky we were.
My wallet contained about $1,000 in Francs and Euro’s but more importantly all of my credit and debit cards. In talking about it, we both realized what a mark we were; not paying that much attention to our surroundings, looking like tourist, and, having a large bulging wallet in my rear pocket. There were no police to be seen in the crowds walking around the lake that day and without speaking the language, I’m not even sure how we would have found the police to make a report. I’ve fretted about it all night – what could have been – and have been writing down credit card numbers and phone numbers and am splitting up my cards and money to put in separate places. We are going to the airport luggage store to buy something more secure to carry those in.
I know you thought from the title these stories would be related which they are not. It just made for a better title. As an addendum on the pick pocket, my contact here Debra Perry, had her wallet stolen at the grocery store. She complained that as much as the Swiss brag about having no crime, they have almost no murders; there is frequent pick pocketing. I’ve learned a valuable lesson.
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