2 Exhausted 2 Write Newsletter Archive

Eeyore from " ? "

Wednesday, 27 October, 1999

I slept through the false-alarm fire alarm. I find that alarming.

The problem with anticipation is letdown. I'd looked forward to the 1999 Paris trip as the Gargoyle/Gardens/Montmartre trip. I've looked forward to my Montmartre book-guided walk for a long time. At least I got to see where Vincent and Theo Van Gogh once lived.

Did get to see the original location of "Le Chat Noir".

Did get to see the outside of the 1890s Grand Trianon -- the oldest cinema in Paris.

Did get to see a smattering of the Pigalle area.

Had long looked forward to doing the whole artisan "American in Paris," "La Boheme" scene.

See where the great artists lived when they were starving...

See wondrous historical architecture...

Soak in the Bohemian spirit...

Seek out all those wondrous stairs...

Lunch at the Sacré-Cœur gardens was nice. That's where it ended. Alan said walking around looking at the outside of stuff like Van Gogh's old digs, huge Art Nouveau stained glass walls, the Trianon, etc. could be enjoyed just as much on a rainy day as it could on a sunny day, so why didn't we spend this sunny day at/inside the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur instead? We took the funicular up to the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur where Alan photographed gargoyles. And where he witnessed a man get his bag stolen. We helped the man get his back from the thief's accomplice, passport intact. I don't know about credit cards. We were where we needed to be, but this just wasn't my day.

  [Quote of the day:
"Chrissie, was that a prostitute back there?!"
"Yes, Alan, and so's that one there."]

I e-mailed loved ones with the crime-fighting details when I wasn't so discouraged:

"I never expected to pull a pseudo-Amy-Leach at the Sacré-Cœur. Once upon a time this summer Benjie Leach got pick-pocketed in Europe. Student-missionary-in-Peru-knows-the-drill-you-go-girl-Amy-Leach instantly fingers the accomplice and slaps her until she gives up the wallet which no doubt has been emptied already. Amy slaps her until she gets the money. Turns out Benjie's money was still in the wallet, so they got mugged and made money off the deal! Amy felt bad. Amy is my new hero.

Once upon a time this summer Sharon Leach loaned me their Rick Steves guidebook.

Once upon a time the third day of our trip, a Parisian slammed me into the métro turnstile, bruising my thigh and cracking the back of my head to a feared-concussion extent. We gauged him for a stile-jumper, aka every other métro passenger. Shortly thereafter we discovered my insulin and $500 insulin injector [hypo-spray] were missing from my snap-back back-pack (lesson #1: ZIPPERS not snaps). It could have been I was pickpocketed while Alan thrilled to and videotaped a Communist Party parade, THEN I was brutalized at the métro. Who knows.

I was glad the jerk got something he couldn't get a penny for and couldn't use himself. HA! Grrrrrumble. Grrrrrrumble.

Once upon a time, still grrrrumbling, we were on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur. Alan says "I think that guy just got robbed." I look out at three hundred "guys". But one starts whirling, yelling "My bag! My bag! Someone stole my bag!"

"Sir! My husband saw him!" I call. Alan and he race into the church. His companions, helpful Parisians and others come up to me and ask what the guy looked like. I said it didn't matter because the thief no longer had the bag...the accomplice would have it now and we didn't see HIM (fine legal maneuver, eh?). Alan and the victim came out of the church not having found the long-brown-haired thief. The victim, a British father, was beside himself wailing "What am I going to do? What am I going to do? My money, my credit cards, my passport! Everything was in that bag!"

Again the others started up with the thief. Again I told them the thief didn't have the bag, the accomplice did and perhaps we MIGHT be able to find the bag and passport but the money was gone. He told us it was a red Berganz bag. Most of the others scattered to look. I stayed to re-emphasize the credit cards could be cancelled, money could be wired and we might be able to find the passport if we searched the dumpsters.

The Brit was near tears and panicking. I prayed silently realizing the odds of finding that passport. I said to him "Sir, say a prayer. Maybe everything will be all right." He moaned and looked around...to see a well-dressed, short-haired handsome man walking out of the church with a red Berganz bag. Instantly it was no longer a problem of finding Brit's passport...it was a problem of not having it taken from Brit for having beaten a Parisian to death.

Brit had him up against the church doors, both of them screaming the filthiest profanities regarding what they were going to do to each other.

I'm next to them yelling to calm down and to give me the bag give me the bag GIVE ME THE BAG!!!
The accomplice is yelling "I never took your bag. I never took your bag! You never saw me take your bag."
Which makes me angry. "That's right! Your accomplice gave it to you! Your long-brown-haired ACCOMPLICE stole the bag you're holding!"
Now he looks scared. "It's my bag! This is my bag!"
"OK! You can have it! As soon as you show him his passport isn't in it!"
"This is not his bag!"
"GOOD! Let me show him his passport isn't in it and we'll all go away!"
"It's not his!"
"We've been looking for a red Berganz bag! This is a red Berganz bag! SHOW us it isn't his and we'll go! GIVE ME THE BAG!!!!!!!!!!"

A security guy came up and grabbed them like they were both perpetrators. Brit got his hands on the bag and rifled through it while the real perp was still clutching it, Brit's hip crushed into his pelvis. The passport was there. I didn't even ask about the money.

Once the passport was found Brit again concentrated on ripping the guy's head off, so I was back to yelling "calm down calm down don't get arrested too calm down we've got him don't get in trouble too CALM DOWN!"

That taken care of Brit's companion, son, and I convinced the security guard to let go of Brit's shirt and chest hair...he would stay until the other guy was hauled off, we guaranteed it.

Later, finally doing the tourist thing inside the church, I was MORTIFIED: normal level voices outside the doors were amplified and echoed in the church. To imagine what my GIVE ME THE BAGs and their profanities must have sounded like. *eek* So much for reverence in a House of God. *hang head and hide*

Thank you, Amy Leach, for the lesson in Find The Accomplice Not The Thief. You go, Girrrrrrrrrrrrl!!!!! And thanks for your leftover dose of chutzpah that must have been haunting the guidebook we both had at the time."

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