The experiences of getting your pockets PICKED, traveling to a major city in Spain, translated…
This is NOT a fairytale, but a name I’d given to the weekend marketplace of Madrid. Whether if it is a flea market, or a pirate market. Anyways, as you’d heard, it’s, that place where, the men of all orders gathered, a place to dig up the treasures, to watch the raucous happen, and, it’s, the place, in-between the park next to the MRT station, the plaza, and the tourist attraction streets.
Last time I caught a glimpse of an antique accordion at a corner of the underside of a building, the old folded leather box, still shone of that glow from the leather, the ivory colored ivory keys, with the rows of silver buttons, the sound of it playing, made linger on. There were those who’d sought out the treasures in the junk piles, trying to find that old iron operated by the coals. That black colored ship-shaped iron, along with that ancient wooden handle, everything was, the precious art pieces, left over, by time.
like this???
In recent years, there are more and more foreigners who’d come to set up the stands here, other than the Africans who’d sold the wood carvings, the beast skins, there were the Arabs who’d sold off the handmade leather pieces, the clothes. And there are also, the passionate Gypsy ladies, with the roses, dancing amongst the street performers. And, there’s, that foreign land feel to this, old marketplace now.
On a sunny morn, the marketplace was, filled with, the crowds, the marketplace was, lively. Then, a rambunctious young lad, dropped some coins on the ground, he’d, blocked my path, bent over to pick up the coins. Then, the visitors gathered around. The youth who was picking up his spare change patted my calf, told me to lift up my legs. As he’d, picked up the changes he’d dropped, he looked satisfied, and smiled at me, turned to go. I subconsciously, patted my pant pocket, shit! My wallet’s, gone! As I’d lifted up my head, that young lad was, already, gone. There was an elderly Arab man with a goatee at a stand close by, who’d, watched this, whole scene. I’d, tossed him that gaze of question, but he’d, sighed that sigh, shook his head, looked, away.
The following day, the tourists, cramped up the police station, with the group of anxious tourists, filling out those forms, calling, waiting to sort through that cardboard box, for the wallets that’d been, picked from our, pockets, and the emptied wallets, were all, dropped off, by the street sweepers from the previous night.
Another comfortable morn, that warm sunshine splashed itself down on the majestic Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. Suddenly, someone had, dropped, a bunch of, coins on the ground! But this time, my wallet was, safe and sound, inside of my shirt pocket, covered. I’d pushed my wife out of the way, called out to her, “CUIDADO!” (Spanish for “watch out!”) and, in the chaos, a few young lads, with dark complexion, ran off into all the directions around us, vanished, into, the different, street corners. The middle aged men who were reading the papers by the flower patches seemingly, displeased, folded up the papers, looked left and then right, got up, pressed down their hats, and, left the stone stool they were, sitting on.
Under the sun, some pigeons, flapped their wings, fought for the bread crumbs the elderly woman was, throwing at them. And suddenly, that originally, populated plaza became, so, vacant.
And so, this, is how those local rift rafts, target the tourists, because the tourists don’t know the goings-on of the local life, and, even AS you were robbed, pick-pocketed, and reported it to the police, they can’t do anything about it, that’s why, this man became smarter, put his wallet into the secret compartment of his shirt, so, even as these young pick-pockets tried to steal, they won’t be able to, because you fooled me once, shame on you, you fool me twice, then it’s, SHAME on me, and nobody’s gonna fool US, twice!