WE WAS ROBBED
February 13, 2015
And how.
Well, easily as it turns out. We were on our way home to Tuscany from Provence. The car was packed to its gills with luggage and antiques. We were happy and energized thinking how good it would be to walk in the garden gate. Five miles from Aix en Provence we stopped at a little row of 3 antique shops on a country road, locked the car and walked 20 feet to one of the stores. Five minutes we were gone, tops, during which time the thief smashed the small window by the mirror on the passenger side and made off with my two bags and Joel’s camera bag. Yep. Gone. Horrifying.
It took me less than a second to register the enormity of it, even though the complete list of stolen items would take hours. What really horrified me immediately was that I was suddenly a person without papers. I, who have had a lifelong quest to belong now had not a single scrap of evidence that I was who I was: passports, credit cards, drivers license, social security card, Italian residency card, iPhone….gone.
I became a wild animal, turning here and there begging the shop-owners to call the police. What a joke. It would be another few minutes before realized that these shops, on an isolated patch of road, were a front…not to mention an affront. I flagged down a passing car; the driver called the police…another joke. Police don’t come to you…you must go to them.
And now the images of our bags and their contents were speeding around the mad carousels of our minds; between the cries for help, the many contents of my bag started flashing sharp and fast enough to detach a retina: my pen, my little dart of a pen; its case, handmade by Gianni. The leather makeup pouch, also handmade, which I’d bought from the boutique my daughter was then working in that summer 10 years ago. The one of a kind wallet/change purse I’ve carried for 15 years, its leather form molded to the shape of my palm. My key ring with the 1st year AA coin I’ve rubbed thousand of times over 25 years. Let’s not even talk about the horror of losing ones make-up! Talk about losing face.
And as we paced next to the car, calling out like wounded animals, another image became clear; the way the owner had waited until we were in the rear of the shop before making a call, most likely to his accomplice who was probably waiting out back. The way another man suddenly appeared, with cuts on his wrist; not the suicidal kind, but the kind one might incur from reaching through shattered glass to unlock a car door from the inside. And all the while, the deepening knowledge that we were helpless, that we’d never see our stuff again. Joel’s computer, his 2 Leica’s, gone.
By the time we reached the Police station we had gone from screeching animals to zombies with the taste of ash in the mouth. And is often the case when violence strikes us personally an enormous empathy arose for the suffering millions. Now, the carousel of missing items was interspersed with images of women being stoned for being raped; the fleeing thousands of displaced Iraqi’s and Syrians, the battered wives and abused children. A carousel of hideous hyenas. And then the dawning of another realization…our truest fortune was intact: our lives and our love.
We waited for an hour and half to be interviewed by the police, which in our case turned out to be the kind of babe you see on Law and Order; a big breasted, gun-toting beauty with sparse English. She filled out the papers that we need for our insurance, refused to track my iPhone and wished us bon voyage.
We taped cardboard over the window, hugged each and drove 5 hours non-stop to Rapallo where we had a reservation for the night in a 5 star hotel, an off –season booking that had at the time had seemed like a steal! Ha! The tranquil evening promenade we’d envisioned was long gone by the time we arrived, the night so dark the sea was invisible. We ordered room service in place of the romantic dining experience and barely ate a thing.
Then we fell into bed. As, evidently did the couple in the next room. For half an hour we listened to the Russian version of the Meg Ryan orgasm before calling the desk and having them move us to another room.
We awoke to beauty. The universe gracing us with a serene Riviera in pastel tones, as if knowing that color must be introduced back into our lives gently. Breakfast was bountiful and served with kindness. But there are many stages to loss and some of them overlap. We were done with denial, but along with acceptance there was anger and thoughts of revenge. So that one minute I was praying for the thieves and the next I had the impulse to steal from the maid’s cart of toiletries and towels. One minute I was feeling gratitude for being reminded that safety is an illusion and the next I was envisioning kicking the bastards in the balls before sawing them off with a rusty knife. A serrated one. Slowly.
In the 3 hour drive to Siena (where we picked up an old computer of Joel’s that had been repaired) we started going over the list of stolen treasures and with each repetition came the sharp pain, followed by letting go. We stopped for a roadside cappuccino so happy to speak Italian, to be in Italy, to feel the sense of belonging that has nothing to do with pieces of i.d. And for a moment I thought, what the hell do I need a passport for anymore? Where do I want to go? Who needs to fly again? The kids can come to us. Of course, that thought passed too, because forbid an emergency with our kids, we’d want to be there at their side.
But I tell you, when we turned onto our country road we almost wept. And of course, here comes Gianni, driving toward us, leaping out of his truck, the three of us hugging and jigging in the middle of the road. And there, there’s the garden gate! And here comes Vincenzo running to us, smiling. And now here comes Silvia bringing us a loving embrace and fresh, warm eggs. Here are the steps we built, the olive trees we planted and the sun is shining and the hills are indeed alive with celestial music. Look where we live! Look what we made: the fireplace, the humble kitchen, oh, the bathtub, and our bed. Listen, the sheep. And we cling to each other every 5 minutes This, we say, this love only time can steal. And, as I said to our kids, we may be draped in crêpe but there ain’t no moss on us yet!
Heads down: cancel the cards, call insurance, download passport forms, file the report with the Caribinieri, replace the Italian Identity Card, find the scans of passports and license, make an appointment to replace the car window and marvel at how good a cheap pharmacy lipstick looks and have a laugh about the Armani one I’ll never see again.
There’s a lot more work ahead of us, but I already have a new iPhone, Leica will get two new cameras to him next week. A trip to Rome for passport replacement, although not desirable, we will turn into an adventure and on and on… And that’s it really, on, further on we go. And here’s the interesting thing: the enormous sense of liberation that comes with losing “precious” stuff. After the initial zombie state I felt propelled forward into the abundance of my own creativity and the joy of making things as opposed to the need for owning things.
All those treasures I coveted, they were talismanic because I imbued them with that property. Now some of them are the property of strangers, while others will have been discarded as useless. It is for those objects that were special to me that I feel sad. Who will hold my pen and let it pour forth? Who will ever read the note my daughter wrote me when she was 16, its simple message of love left on the kitchen table and then carried with me for 25 years?
As we age, it becomes clear, at times devastatingly so, that life is a series of losses. Some things are taken, some we give up or away and some we still cling to. It turns out that attachment to anything is folly; a grand illusion of permanence and safety. Yet how hard it is to let go of that illusion.
To be continued.
NB. If any of you should travel to Provence do not stop at this place: Le Village, 6101- Route d’Avignon, Puyricard. (between Aix en Provence and Lourmarin.
