Indy-Andy Gets Mugged/ Indy-Andy Does an Unfortunate Aziz Ansari Impression

June 2017

Yes, you read correctly, I got mugged, but before I go any further I should say that I am 100% fine and escaped the incident with only a scratch, if you could even call it that.  Hopefully your mind is at peace before you read the story.

The theme of this summer is three.  Bad things happen in threes.  The first time I went to Palermo I was thoroughly creeped out by its small, dark allies and dirty complexion.  The second time I went to Palermo I spent 36 hours in bed after eating a likely e-coli rich cookie in Syracuse.  The third time I went to Palermo I got mugged.  While continuously throwing up on the bus from Syracuse to Palermo from my e-coli treat wasn’t the most fun, I would trade the third Palermo event for the second in a heartbeat. 

The other theme of this summer is Sicilian hubris.  Hubris isn’t really the right word, but suffice it to say that Sicily doesn’t want you to be too proud of yourself or pleased with how your travels are going.  Sicily always wants to keep you in check.  Just when you start to announce how wonderful something is, Sicily dishes out something that makes you bite your tongue.  Don’t let Sicily know how much fun you’re having!  The key – I’ve discovered – is not to vocalize your luck, at least not until the day or excursion is over.

I went to Palermo to visit my friend, South American Andrea (SAA for short for now), who was visiting the promised land of Sicily before embarking upon her own archaeological summer adventures.  As we wandered around Palermo I continually remarked at how different I felt about the city from the previous times (although, I can’t really count the second time since I mostly saw the inside of my hostel room).  Palermo wasn’t scary or dirty!  It was beautiful and welcoming!  What had I been thinking beforehand?  Was it just too early on in my Italian travels to have fully appreciated Palermo?  Or had Palermo undergone some drastic change since the last time I really saw the city (2009)?  Probably the former – change takes time in Italy.  After a lovely day filled with dead people (the Cappuccin Crypts), things made by long dead people (the archaeological museum), and lots of wandering, SAA and I were meandering back to our lovely AirBnB near the Ballarò market, quite pleased with the day we’d had and discussing our lovely experiences.  Mistake #1 – Sicilian hubris.  While heading home we decided to take a side street that we’d walked earlier that day instead of following the main street.  Mistake #2.  Mistake #3 was me carrying my wristlet in a cavalier fashion down the not-well-traveled side street as if I’d completely forgotten that I was in what was supposed to be a semi-dangerous city.  Bad things come in threes.  Dammit.  A mere fifty meters after leaving the busy piazza, suddenly I heard quick footsteps behind me and felt a massive tug at my left wrist, ripping the handle of my wristlet from the rest of the purse.  Your mind makes very split second decisions in situations like this, but these split seconds feel like eternity.  Earlier that day SAA and I had discussed situations in which someone had done something inappropriate and we had done nothing in response.  For example, getting your butt pinched on the bus in Rome, knowing fully well who it was, but saying nothing, or having a friend tell you that some asshole had pinched her butt in public and watching the jerk intently after hearing this, but I still did nothing.  In situations like these I always wished later that I had done something and rehearsed how I would have like to have handled the problem.  These regrets were fresh in my mind that evening when some asshole decided to rob me.  I instantly thought “I will not be passive” and “Shit, the keys to the apartment are in my purse!”  It was after midnight, so getting in contact with our AirBnB hosts would be difficult, especially on a Saturday.  In addition, my iPhone, Italian cell, two credit cards, two IDs (state and university) were (stupidly) in the purse (why did I not take some of those things out?!), but those were of lesser concern at the time.  With these two things in mind, I found myself sprinting after the thief and his accomplice (sorry, mother).  Well, maybe not sprinting – I can’t say exactly how fast I was going – I felt like I was swimming rather than running, but SAA said that when she turned around to see what had happened I was already gone, so maybe it was a full sprint.  As I ran-sprinted-swam after the thief and his literal partner in crime I realized that I should probably try to communicate in some way to let them know that I was displeased (to say the least) with their actions, let them know that I wasn’t far behind, and try to alert others that there was a situation at hand.  Again, this all happened in probably 1.5 seconds.  Without giving it any thought as to what to say, I forced words to come out of my mouth.  For some reason those words were “GET BACK HERE!” in a Christian Bale as Batman where-are-the-drugs-esque low growly voice.  Adrenaline is a funny thing.  I repeated myself a few times before realizing that English probably wasn’t the best choice in this situation, especially given the phrase of choice – “get back here” is maybe not the best signifier of danger, the thieves probably couldn’t understand me, nor was it a good way to alert the Italians that I needed help.  “I should probably be yelling in Italian,” I thought.  Duh.  Again, this was maybe 5 seconds after the jerk grabbed my purse, so my brain was working quickly, even though time was slowing down.  Having just watched the second season of Master of None, Aziz Ansari’s rendition of sfortunato Antonio in Vittorio De Sica’s The Bicycle Thieves was the next thing that emerged unconsciously from my mouth: “LADRI, LADRI, LADRI, LADRI!!!!” - thieves! – I exclaimed as I continued to run-sprint-swim down the slight incline towards the intersections where the two jerks had rounded the corner, heading back towards the Ballarò market to disappear in the crowd.  There was a small group of Italians at the intersection, watching the entire event unfold and not batting an eye.  One of them was on a vespa and as I yelled exasperatedly in Italian the person on the moped looked at me and nonchalantly said in Italian “Yes, they went that way,” pointing directly in front of him.  Yes, thank you, you very helpful person for pointing out the obvious and not offering to help at all, despite being on a motorized vehicle that was faster than my feet.  Jerk #3.  As I reached the bottom of the hill I realized two things: 1. that I was not going to catch these guys (I assume they do sprint drills for this purpose), and 2. that I had no plan for what to do if I did somehow catch them, and therefore no plan was probably a stupid plan.  So, I slowed down in front of the helpful motorino driver and began to walk shamefully back up the small hill to SAA, who was waiting at the top a mere 15-25 seconds after the incident occurred.  She gently guided me back to the piazza we had walked through a mere minute ago, but this time in a few different state of mind – no longer in a Palermo fog of content, but in shock at what had just happened.

Still processing what had just happened, and still clutching the handle of my wristlet that was so rudely detached from its body, we walked to a restaurant that was still fully staffed well after midnight.  This is not a surprising occurrence in Italy, where the intense heat of the day causes one to eat dinner at very late hours, when you’ve finally stopped sweating and are able to put on nice clothes without immediately drenching them.  We walked up the one of the waiters and I did my best to explain what had just happened, struggling to find the Italian words in the wake of the theft.  They very graciously handed over their phones so that we could call the police and the owners of our AirBnB.  The police arrived after what seemed like an eternity, while we called our AirBnB owner, Gianni, a saint of a man, who was at his cousin’s wedding out of town when the robbery occurred.  Gianni called his brother-in-law (I think), Francesco, who lived in the apartment, who was also busy on a Saturday night, but also graciously dropped what he was doing to let us into the apartment.  Before heading back to the apartment to meet our apologetic host, I gave the police as much information as I could, which was mostly not helpful.  “Did you see the faces of the thieves?” “No.” “Could you recognize them if you saw them again?” “No.” “About how tall where they?”  “About this tall?”  “What were they wearing?” Luckily SAA had noticed that one of them was wearing a red shirt, but two guys of moderate height and one wearing a red shirt isn’t much to go on.  We parted ways with the police and took the larger, well-lit street instead. 

About 20 seconds later we were stopped by the police again.  “Your names?”  They had forgotten to take our names.  That seemed kind of important.  And now that I think about it, I’m not sure if they had any means of contacting me.  I was well aware of the low chance of ever seeing my dismembered purse ever again, but after that interaction I was positive that it was a lost cause.  The police were very nice, but I assume that they have many thefts to deal with and that the thieves are very good at what they do. 

Upon arriving at our apartment and thanking our host profusely for his hospitality and willingness to interrupt his evening to let us in, I canceled my cards and contemplated the whole evening and my feelings about it.  Oddly, I wasn’t angry.  I wondered when, or if, I would be.  I was still in shock over the event.  How could this have happened to me?  How could I have been so cavalier about walking around Palermo after midnight on a Saturday night?  Finally, I thought, “Eh, shit happens.  I’ve been traveling to Europe for ten years… it was about time I got robbed.”  Yeah, I could have been more careful, but ultimately, someone else did this to me.  It’s not my fault.  Shit happens.  My friend and I didn’t get hurt and really the only thing the thieves did was annoy the crap out of me for a week while I tried to figure out how to get my card numbers from banks so I could report the theft to the Italian police and erase my iPhone (unsuccessfully – apparently you need to be in possession of your iPhone in order to erase it immediately… makes a ton of sense, right?).

 And really, the whole day I had vocalized far too many times how pleased I was with our time in Palermo.  This was my error.  Hubris.  The theme continues in the upcoming post (although from the weekend preceding the theft).  On the plus side, I’ve finished out my bout of three’s for now (unless another round should start!).  Stay tuned and stay humble!