To Chase a Thief - Milan

“Bastard!” I scream. 

He looks surprised. 

“Bastard!”. 

The well-dressed, 30-something gentleman with a round face and good haircut backs away from the front passenger door of our car, his tailored navy suit jacket draped casually over one shoulder – cradling something.  He says a word … to himself … in Italian … and turns to run.

Instantly I know what is happening.  My legs are pistons, my Doc Martens pounding the pavement.  I have power and speed and I am going to pulverize the guy.   I scream “Bastard! Stop Him! Thief, Stop Him!”  My voice ricochets off the tightly packed, grey buildings of this grey business district on the fringes of Milan’s grey downtown. 

Faces turn to watch – slouching taxi drivers gathering before the morning rush, sleepy tourists dragging wheeled carry-ons, the plump parking warden in an orange safety vest.  They watch … as I and then Fran dash after our quarry, turn the corner and disappear towards Via Tunisia.

We should have been suspicious.  As a word of warning to other travellers, here is how it unfolded. 

Seven in the morning and we’re headed to the airport.  The car is loaded and idling in front of our tourist-class Ibis hotel.  One of our companions has headed back into the hotel on one last errand and we are standing, stretching, breathing the warming morning air as the yellow sunrise highlights the top stories of a nearby tower. 

A well-dressed man in a small BMW pulls up and asks one of us for the way to Central Station.  We’re clearly tourists and point to the cluster of taxi drivers.  “Ask them”.  He seems oddly persistent, backing his car up a few feet.  “Central Station?” he repeats to the rest of us, lingering, confused before driving off.

Moments later we see him walking on the far side of the street, as if he’s looking for an address on a block-long, blank wall.  He glances our way.  “Weird guy” says Fran.  “He’s looking for Central Station?”

As we wait near the car, an older, slightly disheveled gentleman is suddenly standing beside us.  He says something and we lean in to see what he wants.  “You want taxi?  I can be here in 5 minutes”.  Used to touts, we politely say ‘no’… I turn to show him that we have a car and see ‘Central Station guy’ backing away.  Our companion had left her purse on the front seat and the door open.  He didn’t need more than the moment it took his accomplice to distract us to reach in and tuck it under his casually flung jacket. 

As I lunge towards him, he starts to run, dropping the purse on the sidewalk, unopened.  But that’s not enough for me.  I’m angry and want to hurt him.  We are fast, abandoning the car to our returning companion.  He is faster and has disappeared by the time we turn the next corner.

Disappointed, we reassemble and take stock.  We have the purse, passports and jewelry still inside, and our flight is only a few hours away.  Leave him.

But as we drive off, I spot him again, quaking, cowering in a doorway. 

The anger surges.  I want him… want to teach him a lesson.  I leap out of the car, and take chase again across Via Tunisia and down a side street.  An old man shouts to me and points down a narrow alley.  But my aging knee calls it quits, evaporating under me and I’m down, skidding on my arm across the hard, black pavement.  When I struggle to my feet he is gone. 

I’m pumped on adrenaline and talking a mile-a-minute when I get back to the car.  “Did you see the look on his face?  We gave him a real scare.  I feel like Tom Cruise.  It was like being in a movie”. 

The pain (and blood) from my roll on the pavement begin to register on our short drive to Linate airport.  So too does the steel-cold realization that he might have been armed; that catching him would have been far worse than letting him get away.  It was fool-hardy, chasing a frightened thief down an empty street in a city I don’t know.  I was lucky.  My guardian angel had tripped me up. 

The lessons are often repeated – keep your hands on your valuables.  Lock the car.  Don’t think that all thieves look like thieves.  Stay alert to behaviour that just doesn’t add up.  It doesn’t take more than a split second for someone to step between you and what you are watching … and it’s gone.  And today, a new one: while chasing a thief might scare him into dropping your valuables he may also be leading you into further dangers.  

I feel very lucky today.  Our thief didn’t get what he was after.  We had a huge adrenaline rush.  The road rash will heal.  And we have gained a little more travel wisdom.

- 30 –

Venice is ...

Venice is a temptress.  At first glance, she beckons you from across the lagoon with tall, pyramid-topped campanile* and imposing grey stone domes. 

Her lacy 16th century palaces float daringly a mere meter above the lively waters.  Tempting public squares and lean, sinewy canals offer brief glimpses of deeper delights. 

As you arrive, her beauty mocks her fame – all photographs are mere caricatures.  The timelessness of what lies before you is dazzling. 

Tintoretto painted canals and palaces as backgrounds to his saints, Caneletto sketched postcards for 18^th century travellers.  And it opens before you, unchanged – solid Rennaissance palazzos shoulder-to-shoulder along the Grand Canal, barges and gondolas churn the green black waters, the serene arch of the Rialto bridge hovering over busy human activity.

Cooly demure under a warm sun, Venice is ancient and stunningly ageless.

  

Venice is enchanting. Turn away from the bustle of the canal-side Fondamente** and plunge into her haphazard, shoulder-width alleys.

In the endless maze of leaning gothic dwellings, hunch-back bridges vault lazy, turquoise canals.  Sudden turns may dead end or lead to unexpected squares fronting on massive stone churches. 

Amidst the cool half-light, random sunbeams spotlight tumbling amethyst wisteria and blood red geraniums.  Stand on the arched back of a bridge and feel the pull of curving canals and twisting streets, enticements to discover what treasures lie beyond.

Venice is unfathomable.  It takes time to link the glimpses you are offered, to get a broader sense of her many charms.  But you never achieve an all-encompassing view.  Nowhere can you stand back and survey all she has to offer.  Her sestierri (six districts) must be explored slowly, calli-by-calli, campo-by-campo. 

And in the end, Venice is a vixen.  She jostles you with her crowds of tourists, rushes you from San Marco to the Rialto, blinds you with trashy trinkets and over-priced boutiques, and sends you on your way.  She leaves you with fantasies of what might have been – in another time, with more time. 

Venice is … without parallel.

(*bell tower  ** canal side quay)

- 30 -