I got my backpack stolen at the Barcelona train station in another life. I'm playing with that here.
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I
don’t talk to strangers. That’s the ironic thing. Or, if I do, it’s when I’m
feeling expansive, happy, on the cusp of something fantastic. None of this was
true at Barcelona’s overly well-lit main train station as I sat there in the early
days of 2001.
I
had a Diet Coke in one hand and a book I was handily ignoring in the other – White Teeth by Zadie Smith, which I
later realized is a really good read – and sorrow that extended from my
brow to the tips of my toes. Maybe he sniffed that out. Maybe he sensed the loneliness,
the isolation. Could be I telegraphed some sort of desperation, a yen for
companionship so strong that it overwhelmed my most basic of instincts.
In
other words, I was a mark. He was almost certainly skilled at spotting them. Marks
may not always be obvious patsys, but travel can bring out the worst in the
best of us.
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